


There's No Such Thing as Impossible

by justafandomfollower



Series: The Justice League [3]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justafandomfollower/pseuds/justafandomfollower
Summary: Barry’s spent half his life so far searching for the impossible in an attempt to free his father, who was framed for his mother’s murder – until one day he becomes the impossible, and his definition of the word is irrevocably altered. Luckily, he's got the Green Arrow on his side.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Cisco Ramon & Caitlin Snow, Barry Allen & Iris West, Barry Allen & Joe West, Eddie Thawne/Iris West
Series: The Justice League [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1167974
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. The First Secret

_December 4, 2013, evening:_

He’s running late. Of course he’s running late – sometimes Barry feels like he’s never managed to be on time for anything in his life though he knows, statistically speaking, that that can’t be true. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s raining, and he didn’t bring an umbrella, and he’s running _late_.

(Technically, technically, Barry’s not late. Because he wasn’t invited. No one knows he’s coming. But he’d caught wind of the unusual robbery at one of Queen Consolidated’s warehouses as he’d been working into the early hours of the morning on some basic lab work and, well. It’s worth the ten-hour train ride. For something like this, it’s worth it. Barry doesn’t want to miss it.)

Luckily, he’s not _too_ late. True, the SCPD have already set up shop at the scene and started investigating the crime, but their own CSI’s have just gotten started and nobody minds too much when Barry flashes his badge (alright, official CCPD employee identification card) and sets up his equipment. They seem to be waiting for the detective assigned to the case to get started.

(The Queens are some of the most influential people in Star City, even after the miniquake caused by Malcolm Merlyn and Moira Queen and only barely stopped by the combined efforts of the Green Arrow and Superman – that means big money and probably a lot of donations. Barry wouldn’t doubt it if this robbery was moved to the top of this list as soon as the local captain heard whose warehouse it was. Then again, two people are dead too. That tends to motivate cops, or at least the honest ones.)

Detective Andre Blair, tall and stern, frowns down at Barry’s ID but lets him stay. Barry breathes a sigh of relief. This isn’t his first time butting into a crime scene where he technically doesn’t belong, but he knows the trick by now: act like he’s supposed to be there. His ID is legit, his work sound, and most people don’t want to deal with bothering to double check his reasoning for being there, especially since they’re not the ones who have to worry about paying him. (Anyway, his reason would, itself, be a good reason. If it were actually true.)

He’s interrupted in his analysis of the crime scene by the appearance of Oliver Queen himself, and what he means by interrupted is that he stops to stare in astonishment as the _billionaire_ walks into his warehouse behind a gruff looking ex-military guy (Barry hangs out around cops all day; he knows the type) and a blonde-haired woman in heels and a dress. Barry doesn’t think he’s ever seen a billionaire in real life.

Obviously this is Queen’s warehouse and his company that was robbed, but still. Billionaire. In front of him. It takes him a moment to come back to himself and realize what they’re saying. His mind goes from blanking out over Queen’s appearance to _no, no, no, that’s all wrong._ He speaks before he can stop himself.

“Actually it was only one guy,” he says, feet carrying him forward. _You’re supposed to be unobtrusive. Out of the way,_ he chides himself. No one was supposed to have reason to question why he’s there. But it’s too late now and he can’t exactly just _let_ them solve a crime wrong. The victims deserve justice.

He starts babbling before he can second guess himself, something about being late and his train and his cab and the app on his phone – he doesn’t really know, words spilling out of his mouth, stumbling over each other. He doesn’t try to stop himself though. It’s not an act – he really is that nervous – but he’s realized that people are less likely to press him for an explanation if they think he’s going to babble his way through it. (He tries to focus on Detective Blair but his eyes keep shifting to Oliver Queen. Billionaire. Pretty much a local celebrity. Barry’s never met a celebrity. Does this count? He can’t wait to tell Iris.)

“This is Barry Allen, from the crime scene investigation unit in Central City. They’re working a similar case and decided to offer some assistance,” Blair says calmly with only the slightest undercurrent of a warning in his tone.

(Barry’s pretty sure he knows what that warning means. It is not, thankfully, _I don’t believe your story_ , but rather, _Get your shit together and act like a professional_. He’s heard it from more than one cop before and he holds back a wince. His first impression was right. Blair is _very_ no-nonsense.)

The gruff ex-military guy next to Queen frowns at him contemplatively, slightly judging. “You think one guy managed to rip this door open?”

Barry knows it sounds implausible but, this is a world where Superman exists and weird fear drugs terrorize Gotham every other month and the ocean can rise up and destroy an oil rig off the coast of Japan – and only that oil rig. Not to mention, this is Star City. And even if all the rumors and theories floating around the internet are completely baseless, and Green Arrow is just a guy with a bow (which is what Barry thinks, though he can’t be certain), this is still a city that almost suffered through a _man-made earthquake_. Half a year ago, that would have been the stuff of science fiction.

But not everyone has as much information on the weird and out-of-the-ordinary as Barry does. Not everyone knows about those things that he just listed off in his mind. The four people in front of him are going to want a better explanation than that. Luckily, Barry has science on his side.

“One very strong guy, yeah,” he says, still stuttering and nervous ( _he’s not supposed to be here!_ ) but certain of his facts. “Uh, it takes about, uh, 1,250 foot-pounds of torque to break someone's neck. You see the marks on the guard's neck? The bruising pattern suggests the killer used only one hand.” Gruff guy’s eyes seem less judging at the information, but Blair’s and Queen’s are still mostly blank. Barry’s mouth jumps ahead of his brain again, directing his next words at Oliver Queen. “I'm guessing you don't know how hard it is to break someone’s neck.”

( _Really?!_ he chides himself. _Those are your first words to the first billionaire you ever meet?_ )

“Hmm?” Queen asks, blinking at him as if he doesn’t understand the question at first, or maybe just wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, no. No idea.”

He doesn’t seem rattled – or disgusted – by the idea though, so at least Barry hasn’t totally screwed up the encounter.

The SCPD’s own crime scene tech – cyber division, actually, Barry thinks – pokes his head into the group from behind. “Uh, we’re going to need a list of the entire inventory here to figure out exactly what was stolen,” he says, directing his not-quite-a-question towards Queen and his two companions rather than Detective Blair.

But Barry’s already had a decent look around and his brain jumps on that too. “Actually, I think I know what was stolen,” he blurts out. He starts rambling about centrifuges as he leads them over to the empty space where one once sat, mouth spitting out all the information that’s been running through his brain the last half-hour or so.

Blair nods once, studying the base that was left behind, then looks up at Barry. “Since you seem to know what you’re doing, why don’t you tell us what a centrifuge _is_ – and why someone might want one.”

Barry doesn’t get a chance to answer. The woman who came in with Oliver Queen – wearing smart, black-rimmed, rectangular glasses and a salmon dress that nicely highlights her figure under her coat (what? Barry can look, can’t he? It’s not like he’s actually told Iris how he feels, or that he has any real hopes there) – speaks up instead.

“It separates liquids,” she says quickly. “The centripetal acceleration causes denser substances to separate out along the radial direction.”

Barry nods in agreement. “The lighter objects move to the top,” he finishes for her, revising his opinion of Queen’s entourage. Scientist, not secretary. (Which, yeah, makes sense that Queen would bring a security expert and scientist to a crime scene at a warehouse holding scientific equipment.)

As the other three men absorb the information the woman turns to look at him. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Barry. Allen.” 

She grins at him. “Felicity. Smoak.”

Felicity. It’s a nice name. Barry grins back. He likes it when people understand his explanations and he doesn’t run into too many people in his line of work who can do the explaining for him. (Even with only a year under his belt at the crime lab, Barry’s already learned that most people’s brains don’t work as fast as his.)

Blair interrupts their awkward introduction, ignoring the way the two of them are grinning at each other. “And why, exactly, would someone steal a centrifuge?”

A good point. A very, very good point that Barry hadn’t actually considered yet. He’d been focusing more on how and who and what and when than on _why_. “Oh, um, I’m… I’m not really sure,” he stutters, mind scrambling to come up with ideas as he runs through everything he knows about centrifuges and their uses. “Most applications are scientific or industrial. I have one – a much smaller one – in the crime lab back home. I’m sure you guys do too. But, um…” he shrugs hopelessly. Crap. Way to make a terrible impression. Why can’t his brain just _think_ sometimes?

Felicity Smoak, luckily, is just as smart as she’d first sounded and swoops in before the silence can get too awkward. “Centrifuges are used to separate liquids,” she reiterates, “any liquids. It’s possible, I guess, technically speaking, that they could be using it to manufacture drugs? Not that I know anything about making drugs,” she adds quickly, glancing over at the detective as though he might use her random babbling to arrest her, “or even if there are any that need a centrifuge but… well I doubt they’re separating soil samples or nuclear isotopes.”

The thought triggers something in Barry’s brain – finally, something useful to contribute to the conversation. “The Kord 2BX-900 isn’t certified for nuclear materials anyway,” he adds in quickly. “But… centrifuges aren’t exactly regulated equipment. It’s not hard to buy one – a smaller one at least. If someone wanted a centrifuge this big…” Barry doesn’t know anything about the manufacture of street drugs either. He has no clue if a centrifuge would make the production of heroin or cocaine or even Star City’s vice of Vertigo go any faster. But if someone is intending to use the _industrial_ size centrifuge for drug production then, well, that’s a lot of drugs.

Blair looks intrigued by the idea but he circles back around to their earlier topic. “What other evidence do you have to support your theory that there was only one thief?”

“Oh,” Barry half-jumps, hurrying around to the other side of the stand where the centrifuge had once sat. He points out what he’d seen earlier. “See the cracks in the concrete, heading toward the door. There’s only one set of footprints. One guy. One very strong guy.” And then, just so they don’t think he’s placing all his eggs in one basket, or that he’s trying to take over their investigation, he quickly speaks again before anyone else can comment. “It’s just a theory. One backed by a lot of evidence.” Why did he have to say that last bit? _You idiot_ , he tells himself. So much for making sure he didn’t piss anyone off.

But Barry believes in what he’s saying. He can’t think of a single other explanation that would fit the facts as he’s presented them. (This is why he’s here, to study the strange nature of this crime and try to convince people that the impossible isn’t nearly as impossible as they think it is.)

“Detective,” Oliver Queen calls out into the silence, already half turned away like he’s ready to leave. “I’d like to be kept updated on the investigation. Ms. Smoak already has access to the building’s systems and security footage and I’m authorizing Mr. Rowley to have free reign. I know the SCPD has a job to do but I’d like to keep this as in-house as possible.”

The detective studies the billionaire for a moment, clearly not as impressed upon meeting him as Barry is. (Maybe he’s already met him before?) After a moment, he nods. “This is your property, Mr. Queen, your people have full access.” Blair doesn’t seem pleased by the concession – Barry knows that cops _hate_ people butting into their crime scenes – but Barry’s still focusing on the fact that’s he’s _met_ Oliver Queen, seen him up close and in person. (His eyes are really blue.)

“Thank you,” Queen replies sincerely, before turning to Felicity and his head of security. “If you need anything from me –”

“I’ll ask,” the head of security says gruffly, striding away from Oliver to follow after Blair as he leaves the group. He doesn’t seem very impressed by the billionaire either, but then again, he works for him. He’s probably met him before for sure. (Or, since he seems like the ex-military/cop type, maybe he’s just not impressed by Oliver Queen’s drinking and partying habits. Barry knows Joe isn’t.)

Off to the side, and trying to pretend he’s studying the centrifuge’s base, Barry doesn’t hear whatever Felicity and Oliver talk about next, but he sees them out of the corner of his eye enough to know that they have a quick discussion before Queen leaves the warehouse. He isn’t the only one. Blair’s been talking to his people and, true to the billionaire’s wishes, most of the SCPD members on the property file out shortly after the property owner. Some seem indifferent to their new orders and only a few look irritated.

Barry is very, very glad when Blair doesn’t ask him to leave, though the man does approach him with an order.

“I’m letting you stay on the condition that you don’t go back to Central City and immediately tell your whole precinct what happened here. Your captain’s fine, but if Queen wants to keep this quiet we’ll keep it quiet, understand?” He’s still clearly upset about taking orders from someone who isn’t police but he’s firm in his decision too.

Barry nods quickly and manages not to babble. “Of course, sir,” he promises. Given that he’s not even supposed to be here, and that no one from the CCPD knows he is, keeping whatever he discovers during the course of the investigation a secret shouldn’t be a problem.

When he turns back to the broken base in front of him, Felicity Smoak is waiting next to it.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Barry returns stupidly. They’d already exchanged greetings – what is he doing?

Felicity seems equally as embarrassed. They both blush and grin at each other sheepishly.

“I guess we should, uh, get to work,” Barry offers, still sounding quite stupid.

“Yeah, that, uh, yes. That is what we should be doing.” Felicity tucks a stray hair behind her ear, grinning nervously (and adorably). She straightens. “What do you usually start with?”

* * *

Truthfully, Barry finds out pretty quickly that Felicity doesn’t know that much about forensics, even if she does know more than most computer scientists Barry knows. She certainly seems to understand how a police investigation works (though most of America seems to think they do too, after watching CSI and Law and Order and the two-dozen other crime shows out there). But the actual detailed forensics of it? Not so much.

He’s not even really sure why she, an IT expert, out of everyone else at Queen Consolidated, is the one assisting him. (He briefly entertains the idea that it’s because she’s, well, _friendlier_ with the CEO than most people – he’s not an idiot, he knows Oliver Queen’s reputation – but Felicity doesn’t seem like that kind of woman and Barry’s not the kind to really believe something like that unless he has evidence.)

Still, she’s smart, and she picks up quickly on what Barry’s doing and what she can do to help. Most of the SCPD clears out behind Queen, leaving only Blair and Kelton with Felicity and Rowley. Apparently, if Queen wants low-key, he gets low-key. (Barry still can’t get over the fact that he met a _billionaire_.)

Though the (probable) centrifuge seems to be the only thing stolen, they can’t judge a crime scene based solely on a first look. Barry leaves the SCPD tech to analyze what they already know – the door, the footsteps, the broken base – and starts to canvas the rest of the warehouse on his own, without the other techs he usually has at his back. Felicity follows in his footsteps though, helping him with her access into Queen Consolidated’s database and her knowledge of what the company does, while Blair and Rowley do a search of the perimeter.

As soon as Felicity gets access to a full list of the warehouse’s contents – which doesn’t take long, given that she’s got the CEO’s and head of security’s permissions on top of her crazy fast computer skills – Barry adds cataloguing the inventory to their search of the interior (which is going to take a while, if he’s the only one doing it…). So far at least, though, nothing seems to be out of place, besides what they’ve already noticed.

And yeah, the centrifuge missing is _exactly_ what he’d thought it was. Score one for Barry Allen!

* * *

* * *

_December 7, 2013, early morning:_

It takes Barry a couple days to process all the evidence, mostly on his own. He spends his off hours in a cheap motel room, fending off Iris’ texts as he wonders when his captain (or worse, Joe) is going to cotton on to the reason for his absence. So far, it doesn’t seem as if the SCPD has had any reason to contact the CCPD about his credentials, which at least buys him a little more time.

Working with Felicity is fun though, and he’d met _Oliver Queen_ , and, on top of all that, Barry’s finally gotten the chance to work a case in which something not quite human has taken place.

There’s Superman, of course, and that Batman in Gotham City that some people still aren’t sure exists, but as far as Barry’s _personal_ encounters with the supernatural (or the alien) go… Well, not a single case he’s left Central City to investigate has turned out to mean anything. But this… this is proof that it’s not just aliens out there, not just Superman or the weird rumors coming from Gotham every now and again.

Barry’s found a crime committed by someone with enhanced strength, he’s almost sure of it and that means… Well, after that, someone with enhanced speed can’t be that farfetched, can it? Just the sheer possibility makes all the risks of the trip to Star City worth it.

He focuses as much as he can on the strength needed to lift such a heavy centrifuge – to snap a neck with one hand. And when he’s not working on the case, he’s making theories about _why_ and _how_ and _who_ , anything he can think of, any idea that crosses his mind.

Anything to find his mother’s killer.

But he doesn’t forget about the actual police work either, and it doesn’t take him too long for him to realize there’s sugar in the boot prints of the murderer and thief. It’s possible that he spilled a bit on his kitchen floor and stepped in it, but the amount Barry finds suggests that there’s a lot of it on his shoes, enough that it’s still there despite how many steps that he might have taken since stepping in the sugar, and enough that he must have stepped in a lot. There’s still the possibility that it’s a false lead, but there’s always that possibility, and when Barry asks for access to the recent crimes the SCPD has on file, he quickly notices the truck stolen from a local sugar warehouse.

Big enough to hold a centrifuge for sure. He doesn’t hesitate to pass along the information. It’s not relevant to the real reason he’s in Star City, but Barry would never hold off on solving a crime for his own personal reasons.

* * *

* * *

_December 8, 2013, morning:_

Barry’s still working with Felicity again the next day, but Rowley’s not there anymore and the SCPD are analyzing what they’ve found back at their labs (in the case of the tech Barry’d worked with) and following up on any possible leads (in the case of Blair). Now that they’ve got a bit of time, while some of the data is being analyzed and they’re mostly just working through theories and checking for anything that they might have missed, Barry admits he lets himself get distracted a bit. (Really though, these questions have been running through his mind since he first started working with Felicity. It’s practically a miracle he’s held out until now.)

“What’s it like, working for Oliver Queen?” he can’t help but ask.

“It’s exhausting,” Felicity answers honestly before she freezes, blushing. “Not, not like that,” she’s quick to correct, though Barry’s mind doesn’t jump to what she thinks she was implying until after her hasty correction. “I just mean I’m with him every night!”

And Barry… well, Barry’s not ashamed to admit that he slumps a little. He’s got a massive crush on his best friend since childhood, sure, but it’s a crush he’s not sure he’ll ever muster up the courage to do anything about. Felicity’s smart and pretty and fun to talk to and… He’s got a bit of a crush on her too, if he’s being honest.

Billionaires, of course, are much more attractive to any girl. Barry should have known he wasn’t much competition.

“Ah,” he says, trying not to let his disappointment show. He hadn’t taken Felicity to be Oliver’s type, despite her looks, but he hadn’t considered whether or not Oliver Queen was _Felicity’s_ type. “I didn’t realize you two were…”

“Oh, no,” Felicity quickly says, still flustered as she tries to correct her words. “That was just, my brain…” she grimaces. “Oliver and I work together. And I do a lot of work for him – five years without a computer and he’s still learning how to use a smart phone – but that’s it. There’s nothing else between us.”

She looks slightly uneasy with her answer, but that’s understandable given how embarrassed she seems to be at the misunderstanding and anyway, Barry’s more focused on the fact that she’s not romantically involved with the billionaire. He still has a chance. (Maybe.)

“Anyway,” Felicity continues, still blushing slightly as she holds up an evidence bag. “We got new evidence.”

It’s an _arrow_ in the bag, one of the Green Arrow’s smaller flechettes that he keeps on his arm. It’s crumpled, and covered with something that looks like blood, but Barry would recognize it anywhere. He’s certainly seen enough pictures, since the Arrow first made his appearance. He gapes, as Felicity continues talking.

“The vigilante managed to track down the thief who stole the centrifuge,” she says calmly, like it’s no big deal that the Green Arrow is involved in the same case as them. “He didn’t manage to apprehend the guy, but he passed along a blood sample to the SCPD.”

Barry manages to reign in his excitement enough to focus on the fact that he’s got new evidence in his investigation again. “Why aren’t the police analyzing it then?” he asks. He knows Queen had wanted to keep the investigation small, but the SCPD is still technically in charge of this investigation. (Will Star City’s vigilante task force be taking away the crime from Blair, now that the Green Arrow’s gotten involved?)

“Oliver has a lot of connections,” Felicity replies, still talking casually as if none of what she’s saying is anything remotely unusual. “And Queen Consolidated has the equipment.”

Barry glances around the lab they’re currently using. It’s not the _best_ organized lab he’s ever seen – really, nitric acid next to hydrazine and permanganates on top of acetone? – but there’s no denying that it has absolutely stellar equipment. “Yeah, they do,” he agrees. “They need to work on their lab safety though.”

Felicity only holds up her hands in response, grinning. “Not my lab,” she defends. “I tend to stick with computers.”

Barry grins back at her, amused. If it _had_ been her lab he would have been a bit, well… Lab safety isn’t really something to joke about. But it isn’t, so he doesn’t feel the need to say anything further. He definitely doesn’t want to ruin… whatever it is that is between them, by scolding her about a lab that she probably hasn’t even seen before today.

After a beat of silence passes between them, she clears her throat. “Shall we?”

Barry almost blushes again at her question, wondering if he should have used that moment of silence to ask her out, but it’s too late now. Besides, he’s still excited at working a case for Oliver Queen, with evidence from the Green Arrow, in a situation that might just prove the existence of the superhuman.

“Of course,” he agrees happily, and they get to work.

* * *

Barry’s experiences in Star City have been absolutely amazing and nothing at all like he was expecting. Not only has he met Oliver Queen, billionaire, but he’s gotten the chance to meet and work with Felicity Smoak, a stunningly brilliant woman with an infectious smile. He’s gotten to work the same case as _Green Arrow_ , the vigilante he’s been tracking since the man’s debut. And he’s found proof of the impossible, proof that there _are_ unexplainable people out there, capable of unexplainable things, beyond just Superman. He’s never doubted his father’s innocence – he knows what he saw that night – but it’s still so relieving to have an example of the impossible in front of him, not just seen through a TV screen as Superman flies away from his latest miraculous feat.

The case isn’t really over, but the initial crime scene is as analyzed as it’s going to be. He’s pointed the police toward a potential suspect, even if he has no idea of who that suspect is (because, strange as it seems, the theft of the truck from the sugar company is _definitely_ linked to the theft of the centrifuge), and he’s proven that there was ketamine in the thief’s blood, another way to track him. (Which, weird, but this is a man with super strength, so Barry doesn’t discount the possibility that the ketamine plays a role he couldn’t possibly imagine.)

The case isn’t really over but Barry’s already missed three days of work for it – he’s worked weekends for it (and he’s not even getting _paid_ , though it’s worth it in this case) and if he doesn’t catch a train tonight he’s not going to make it back to Central City in time for work on Monday. Besides, the case might not be over, but, for now at least, the forensic part of the case is finished. Now it’s up to the techs and the detectives (and the _Green Arrow_ , and Barry’s still thrilled that he got to work the same case as the famed vigilante) to track down their suspects and bring them in. There’s really no point in him sticking around and if he stays any longer he’s sure to get found out anyway.

There’s still the bad guy to catch and Barry… Barry would love to stick around for that – there’s so much he wants to know about the criminal with superhuman strength – but just having proof of the existence is… It’s enough. It’s more than he’d started to think he’d ever get. Besides, he’s evaluated the crime scene to the best of his abilities. The rest of the investigation isn’t something he’d participate in, and he knows how long tracking down a criminal can actually take. There may be other crime scenes in the future, other aspects to the case before the criminal is finally apprehended, but he doesn’t have that kind of time. He’ll request access to the case files, once things actually get wrapped up, and that should hopefully tell him all he needs to know about the criminal with superhuman strength.

He’s done, essentially. At least, if he wants to keep his job in Central City. He’ll check in on the case as he can, and maybe pay another visit to Star City at its conclusion, but it’s time for him to head home.

Barry reaches that decision at about four in the afternoon, after he and Felicity have gone their separate ways with the results of their blood analysis, spends the next hour wrapping up his case files and submitting his report, goes out for a quick dinner of fast food, and returns to his hotel room to pack up. Then he catches a glimpse of some of his notes and he has an idea and…

Barry loses track of time easily. It’s a bad habit of his. By the time he pulls himself back to the present, finally finishes packing, and gets himself to the train station, it’s past midnight and the trains aren’t running anymore.

“It left ten minutes ago,” the attendant tells him, just about packing up himself.

“Of course it did.” Because why could Barry ever be on time for anything? “When is the next one?”

“In the morning.” There’s no wiggle room in the attendant’s voice, nothing Barry can say to get himself a ticket. It’s not that he’s missed some arbitrary deadline this time, or that the train is booked: the trains simply don’t run this late at night. He can’t argue or bargain his way out of this one.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, however you want to look at it – Barry is all too used to being late. And what’s one more day anyway? He’ll catch the first train in the morning and hopefully still be back before his captain, or anyone else, notices.

Of course, he’s already checked out of his hotel room. And if he leaves the station, he’ll undoubtedly just be late again in the morning, and he doesn’t want to deal with that at the moment. He takes a seat on the nearest bench instead, resigned, and slumps over, wondering if he should risk falling asleep on the hard bench.

Then he feels a sharp pinprick in his neck, like a bug bite or something, only much stronger. His hand moves to the site almost of its own accord, and Barry is just aware enough of the dart he feels there before his vision starts to fade and his limbs go heavy. His eyes widen, but the sedative coursing through his veins doesn’t give him enough time to panic.

The world goes dark.

* * *

* * *

_December 9, 2013, early hours of the morning:_

It takes a moment for the world to come back to Barry. His neck aches and his mouth feels dry and the last thing he remembers he was in the train station, wasn’t he? And then… and then…

Barry blinks, trying to remember, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. There’s someone in front of him, tall and broad and solid. His gaze flickers around the man, frowning. Wherever he is it’s gotta be underground or something, because the walls and floor and ceiling are all made of concrete, without a window to be seen. Barry thinks absently that he should be worried about that, that he should be worried about waking in a strange place without any idea of how he got there, but whatever is affecting his memory (or was he just unconscious?) is also muting his emotions. He can’t quite muster up panic just yet.

Instead, he looks around. There’s a strange silver mannikin to his right, enclosed in a glass case and empty of whatever clothing it was made to display. To his left there’s another display case, a bow proudly centered above racks and racks of green-tipped arrows. Something in Barry’s mind flickers at that, some sort of recognition, but he’s still too out of it to put the pieces together until his gaze moves back to the center of the room.

Felicity’s standing between the display of arrows in the center, and Barry’s gaze rests on her for a moment on its way to the center, but what’s right in front of him catches his eye so much more easily. Solid boots. Green leather pants. Barry’s gaze moves along the body stretched out in front of him on a medical table on wheels, taking in every detail, absorbing every fact, until he reaches the face. His mind stutters.

Even given where he is (where he _must_ be), even given his mind’s confusion as it continues to wake, he’d expected the face of the man on the table to be covered. It’s not.

It’s Oliver Queen.

Oliver Queen, unconscious in front of him with Felicity Smoak standing to one side and another man standing to the other.

Oliver Queen, in green leather, with a bow and arrows in a display case just beyond his feet.

Oliver Queen, in front of Barry who was just unconscious, Barry who is now in a concrete box filled with weapons and computers and, and… and anything anyone could possibly need if one was a vigilante who stalked the streets at night saving lives.

Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow.

Barry’s eyes are as wide as they can be.

Off to the side, Felicity moves forward, slow and hesitant but with eyes that are filled with a fiery determination. “Please save my friend,” she pleads, earnest and desperate and sincere.

Barry’s gaze flickers back to her, brain slow to process her words – and it’s not because of whatever sedative he was given this time. It’s because _Oliver Queen_ is the _Green Arrow_. But then he processes her words – _“save my friend”_ – and he processes the fact that Oliver Queen ( _the Green Arrow_ ) is still lying unconscious in front of him.

It doesn’t matter that the man in front of him is Oliver Queen, a billionaire playboy. It doesn’t matter that Star City’s hero is laying right there. It doesn’t matter if this is real, or if Oliver Queen just likes to wear convincingly realistic costumes (in a convincingly realistic lair) in his spare time.

There’s a man lying unconscious in front of him, and he’s not responding to anything about the situation. Barry shoots forward, full of nerves and confusion and uncertainty. Oliver starts seizing though, and Felicity and the other man are talking, and Barry… “I – I…” He can barely get the words out. “I usually only work on dead people.”

“Barry!” Felicity snaps at him, and Barry’s mind snaps into focus.

He’s no doctor, but he’s learnt enough about the different ways people can die during his stint as a CSI. He knows more about human biology than most people. Right now, all he needs to focus on is abating the symptoms. He doesn’t have to know _how_ , only _what_. What could be happening inside Oliver Queen’s body to make him react the way he is at the moment?

Diagnoses run through Barry’s mind, whittling themselves down as the symptoms present themselves. “Start chest compressions,” he says quickly, reading the monitors, trying to _remember_. Then: there are medical supplies laid out. He flicks a penlight over Oliver’s eyes, draws blood from his arm. “Got it,” he says, pleased by the easy diagnosis and frightened at the same time. “He’s suffering from intravenous coagulation. His blood is unnaturally clotting. It’s like maple syrup.” Not the best comparison and not the best time for it, but Barry’s mouth seems to be running even faster than his brain, if that’s even possible.

Someone is _dying_ right in front of him, and that’s enough of an issue in and of itself without bringing the man’s identity into the question.

“You can save him, right?” Felicity asks, speaking just as quickly, full of worry.

Barry glances around wildly, still taking everything in, still absorbing his surroundings, what he has to work with. He spots what he’d thought he’d seen earlier in a matter of seconds after Felicity’s question. “Lucky you guys have a rat problem,” he says in reply, and that’s _entirely the wrong thing to say_ in this sort of circumstance but Barry’s already rushing for the warfarin, knowing what he has to do to save this man’s life even if he’s never done anything like this before.

“Are you kidding?!” the other man exclaims, poised over Oliver’s chest, pushing life into his friend’s (presumably?) lungs. “That’ll kill him!”

“He dies if I don’t,” Barry returns, frantic and determined. He knows what it looks like, but he also knows what he’s doing.

The man – Oliver Queen’s bodyguard, he thinks? – looks over at Felicity. “Felicity…”

She hesitates, looks over at Barry. “Do it!” she decides, looking at Oliver again.

“Just the right amount of this stuff will thin his blood enough to get it circulating again,” Barry clarifies, injecting it into the IV that’s already set up.

It almost doesn’t work. Almost isn’t enough – too little? Too late? Barry couldn’t say. Oliver Queen almost crashes right in front of him and only the bodyguard’s frantic efforts keep him from slipping away.

Time after that passes strangely. The man’s name is John Diggle. He’s known about Oliver for a year now. Felicity says she’s worked with him since the beginning of the year. They don’t really talk about much else. Felicity is noticeably restless in her worry, flitting from task to task – finishing putting away the Green Arrow’s quiver, resorting the medical supplies they’d gotten out to tend to Oliver, fussing around on the computer a bit. Even when she’s focused on one task she’s not quite still, frequently glancing back toward Oliver, or smoothing her palms against her thighs, or adjusting her glasses.

Diggle, on the other hand, is tense in his worry. Motionless and alert. He stands more or less by Oliver’s side even as the hours drag by (and fly past).

Barry, for his part, is still mostly processing things. Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow. _Oliver Queen_ is the _Green Arrow_. When he actually considers it… Well, even then it doesn’t seem that plausible.

Oliver had returned home about the same time the Arrow had first appeared, true, but that’s about the only connection Barry can think of off the top of his head. He knows who Oliver is, of course, but only tangentially, from second or third hand sources. The Queens are not nearly as big a deal in Central City as they are in Star City. Oliver spent five years alone on an island, but he’s still been in the news for loud parties and multiple girlfriends. That’s… that’s about the extent of what Barry knows about Oliver Queen.

About the Arrow, though… Well Barry’s been following him since pretty close to his debut. He knows nearly as much as the SCPD about what the hero is capable of, if not more. He’s aware of the sheer physicality that goes into a good deal of what the Green Arrow does. He knows the statistics of how many people he’s saved, how many corrupt white-collar criminals he’s taken down.

He knows that a few people have been considered as potentially being the man under the hood, but that only one was ever arrested for it: Oliver Queen. But Queen had been let go for multiple reasons, one of them being that the hero had been seen across town while Oliver had been on house arrest. And Barry knows that Oliver and the Green Arrow have been seen in different parts of town on the same night on other occasions as well. He’d entertained his own theories, but he’d long since dismissed Oliver as a potential candidate. (If he hadn’t, he would have been that much more flustered when he’d met the man the other day.)

He’d been wrong, apparently. And now the _Green Arrow_ is directly in front of him.

Now’s he’s almost just watched the Green Arrow die. Might still, if he’d diagnosed things wrong, if there’s something else going on inside Oliver’s body that he isn’t aware of. He’d handled the symptoms, not the cause, after all.

The thought pulls Barry from the haphazard contemplation and dazed stupor he’s been in since first waking up. (Probably partially an effect of whatever tranquilizer he was dosed with, he can admit, coupled with the little sleep he’s gotten while in Star City.)

“What, exactly, happened?” he finds himself asking abruptly.

Probably a little too abruptly, given the way Felicity flinches and Mr. Diggle tenses even further. Their medical equipment is good – it’s downright fantastic, actually, given they’re not actually at a hospital – but he’s not a doctor and this _isn’t_ a hospital.

“I mean, with… with the Arrow,” he quickly clarifies, unable to bring himself to say Oliver’s name. (It’s still so _surreal_ , that he knows who the Green Arrow is.) “What if he has, like, internal bleeding or something. I mean? I’m pretty sure I stopped the blood clotting issue, but I’m not a doctor. Something else could be wrong, or…” Or he doesn’t know what else, exactly. He’s rambling, nervous and desperately not wanting to watch a man die (today or any other day, hero or not).

“He was in a fight,” Mr. Diggle says shortly, though Barry’s pretty sure he’s just tense at the Arrow’s near death experience, not at Barry specifically. “We don’t know who with. He would have been fine –” that’s probably an exaggeration? Maybe? “– except he accidentally got injected with an unknown drug.”

“So long as his breathing and heartbeat remain steady,” Felicity chimes in, with an uncertain look at Mr. Diggle despite her words, “he should be fine here.”

There are visible red marks on Oliver’s chest – the Green Arrow’s chest – that will probably settle into bruises. There are even faint red marks around his neck that may or may not bruise. He was grabbed by the throat, Barry realizes, by someone strong.

With the thought, so many things click into place in his mind. There’d been so many thoughts whirring through Barry’s mind, so many revelations and interactions to put into context, that he hadn’t even realized…

But he’d already known, hadn’t he? The Green Arrow was working the same case as he was. _Oliver Queen_ was working the same case as he was, which shines an entirely different light on the first time Barry had met him. And it means that the man who almost killed the Green Arrow is the same man who’d stolen the centrifuge from Queen Industries and snapped the guards’ necks with one hand. In that case, Oliver got off _very, very_ lucky.

Except, no, Barry revises his opinion again. He’s read the case files. Luck isn’t necessary when someone has that much skill. Oliver was lucky, perhaps, that the man hadn’t snapped his neck after he’d been knocked unconscious, but even though Barry hadn’t seen the fight he’s willing to chalk everything else up to sheer skill. The Green Arrow wouldn’t as survived as long as he has otherwise.

Barry’s eyes go back to the mark around Oliver’s neck. “It looks like he got grabbed by the throat,” he says, stupidly, carelessly, callously.

Felicity winces. Mr. Diggle gives him a sharp look.

“No, I just, I mean, if he wasn’t wearing gloves,” Barry says quickly, attempting to put his thought process into words, “then I might be able to grab a fingerprint.”

Mr. Diggle’s look lightens up, turning contemplative.

“Really?” Felicity asks. She seems happy at the prospect of a distraction – she’d been running out of things to do, from the looks of it.

“Humans have a lot of oil on their fingertips. Natural oils,” Barry answers. “Do you have anything I could use…”

“Here.” Mr. Diggle hands him something that could work.

Felicity watches for a moment, but she doesn’t seem to like look at Oliver splayed out on the table unconscious, and she and Mr. Diggle have been working on something for the case for a little while, muttering quietly to each other, so she looks away as Barry studies Oliver’s neck, trying to find the best place to position the adhesive.

He doesn’t see what comes next. One moment he’s peeling the adhesive off Oliver’s neck, the next the Green Arrow has surged forward, instantly awake, hand tight around Barry’s throat.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and Oliver is _squeezing_ and there’s a look in the man’s eyes like he doesn’t even know who Barry is, like he’s not even really seeing him.

Barry tries to say something, raises his hand to tug futilely at the grip around his throat, but it’s pointless. Oliver’s grip is unforgiving, the man half curled in on himself, half off the table. Barry tries to speak again, glances over at Diggle and Felicity at the computers, trying to get their attention. Luckily, they’re both quick to notice their partner’s movements.

Mr. Diggle hurries forward, tugging at the arm currently attached to Barry’s throat. “Oliver, let him go.”

_He doesn’t seem to be trying that hard_ , Barry muses absently, almost nonsensically, gasping for air now rather than from any feeble attempt to talk. But it doesn’t seem to matter how strong Mr. Diggle is. At his words Oliver lets go, blinking, confusion falling over his face.

That’s all Barry notices for a moment as he stumbles away, almost falling onto the stool he’d woken up on, coughing and trying to regain his breath.

Oliver says something in the background, Felicity replies. Something about a blood coagulant. And Barry’s pretty sure that Oliver had asked what was going on.

He’s leaning on the stool now, practically sitting on it. One hand rubs absently at his throat. But he can understand the Green Arrow’s confusion. “You would have stroked out,” he manages to say, needing a moment to clear his throat as he stands again, “but fortunately you had a very effective blood thinner handy. Warfarin. Better known as rat poison.” _Shouldn’t have said that – why did you say that?_ Barry’d wince at his own words if he could, but Mr. Diggle picks up where he left off.

“Kid saved your life, Oliver,” the bodyguard says.

Oliver Queen doesn’t look exactly like he knows what’s going on. No, that’s the wrong way to phrase things. He looks like he’s _overwhelmed_ by what’s going on, like it’s too much to process at once. He almost just _died_. Barry can’t really blame him for that. He’s bent over, nothing like the legendary vigilante Barry’s been picturing in his mind, nothing like the solid but surprisingly quiet CEO he’d run into at the crime scene.

Barry’s just about caught his breath by now, though his throat still aches. He’s not sure Oliver’s had enough time to recover though. (He’d almost _died_. Barry’s seen plenty of death, but he’s never watched anyone die before. Never seen anyone come as close as Oliver Queen had only a few hours ago.)

“This is the part in a lifesaving emergency where you thank the person that did the lifesaving,” Felicity says, still from on the other side of the table, behind Oliver. Her words are harsh and biting, but Barry’d seen the way she’d been worrying. He doesn’t know her enough to say for certain, but he doesn’t really think she’s mad at _Oliver_.

Or maybe she is. She’s certainly glaring hard enough as Oliver, still bracing himself against the table, shifts slightly to look her in the eyes. “You told him who I am,” he replies, low and tense, almost too quiet for Barry to hear.

Yeah, he’s definitely still processing things. And Barry… Barry’s been around cops half his life, worked with them for the past year. He’s been interested in the Green Arrow since his debut and done all kinds of research into what might drive a man to do such things. (Yeah, he’s wondered about the green, but he’s done his best to consider the Arrow’s backstory too. The trauma that might be involved.)

Oliver Queen spent five years alone, and he returned with more hand-to-hand combat skills than most war vets. He’d returned without letting anyone onto that fact, choosing instead to hide his identity and fight the crime on Star City’s streets.

“Yeah, I did,” Felicity says strongly, meeting Oliver’s gaze. She doesn’t sound sorry.

Which, yeah, Barry’d saved Oliver’s life – Oliver definitely shouldn’t be blaming Felicity for that – but… He can’t pretend to understand what Oliver Queen went through to turn him into the man Barry can see now. All he knows is that Oliver definitely wasn’t alone on that island. (He can see the man’s scars, scattered across his chest. This isn’t the first time Oliver Queen’s been near death. Barry would place money on that, and he’s never been much of a gambler.)

Oliver still seems to be processing things, tense – with pain or anger, Barry couldn’t have said. After a moment he shakes his head, throwing Mr. Diggle a look. “Watch him,” he bites out, bitter or maybe just, Barry thinks again, still in pain.

His blood’s thinned out enough to get him upright and walking, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be complications from whatever else the drug he’d been injected with might have been doing to his system, and it doesn’t mean that Barry gave him the proper dosage. Near enough, clearly (and thank goodness for that), but not necessarily what would have been ideal.

“Where are you going?” Felicity half snaps, as Oliver turns away and stalks toward the bathroom in the corner.

Oliver doesn’t answer, and when Barry meets Mr. Diggle’s gaze as the door shuts behind the hero it takes him a moment to realize what Oliver had meant. _Barry’s_ the one the bodyguard is supposed to be watching.

Not that he’s scared of Mr. Diggle – especially not after what Oliver had just done, in comparison, and how Diggle had been quick to pull him off Barry – but Barry raises his hands slightly and sits back down on the stool. No matter how eager he is to get a proper look around, now that Oliver Queen isn’t lying unconscious in front of him, he’s not about to touch anything.

Barry tries to imagine what it would be like, if he had a secret he kept from all but two people in the world (or maybe a few more, what does he know?) and then Iris or Joe just blurted it out to someone else. Of course, it’s thanks to Barry at all – thanks to Felicity and Mr. Diggle – that Oliver’s even still alive to be irritated. _You just saved someone’s life_ , Barry’s thoughts remind him yet again. _And not just anyone – you saved the_ Green Arrow’s _life._

He’s still absorbing that fact. Still reeling from almost getting strangled with one hand while Oliver was barely aware of his surroundings. He’d always known the Green Arrow was good – strong and skilled – but seeing it in action, having it directed at him…

Barry’s brain can’t settle down enough to pick an emotion. Awe? Pride? Fear? Anger? But he can’t entirely forget that the Green Arrow doesn’t trust him, that Oliver had told his bodyguard to keep an eye on him.

Again, he’s not necessarily scared of Mr. Diggle, but he’s wary enough of the situation to refrain from bursting out the myriad questions flowing through his mind.

Eventually – Barry still isn’t sure how much time is passing, is still a bit disconnected, especially because he has no idea what time it is – Oliver leaves the bathroom, jacket zipped up once more, shoulders straight. If he’s still in pain (which, he must be, right, after what he just went through?) it doesn’t show on his face.

Barry doesn’t notice him right away, too busy looking around, but Oliver steps right up to the medical table, eyes only for him. (He looks every inch the impressive vigilante now, intensity radiating off him, especially because Barry knows he can’t be nearly as recovered as the looks to be.)

“I don’t trust you,” the hero grits out, and Barry can’t blame him for that however much he wishes that Oliver knew he would never give away his secret. (He is also, he has to admit, a little wary, leaning back, swallowing as Oliver speaks. The Green Arrow _doesn’t_ trust him, which means… well it means anything’s on the table, doesn’t it?)

“I do,” Felicity blurts out from just behind Oliver, before Barry can respond.

Oliver’s gaze doesn’t even flicker her way. “If it had been up to me, you wouldn’t be here,” he continues. “How do I know you won’t go straight to the police when you leave here?”

Barry _is_ the police (more or less), but even his scrambled brain knows enough not to bring that up. He shakes his head quickly, empathically, desperate to answer, eager to let the hero know he’d never put him at risk, even if he’s realizing exactly how intimidating Oliver Queen can be in person, when he’s awake. “I… I won’t,” he manages to get out. “I wouldn’t do that.”

He wouldn’t. Never.

Oliver pushes aside the table he’d been laying on only moments ago, taking a step forward. Despite himself, Barry leans back even further, only managing to realize what he’s doing and straighten again at the last second. Oliver _is_ intimidating, no matter how impressive he might also be.

“How do I know that?” Oliver repeats, tone harsh and demanding.

Barry’s resolve strengthens. Yeah, Oliver’s intimidating, but he’s not lying. He respects this man in front of him, respects him immensely, and even if he’d only found out the Green Arrow’s identity only a few hours ago, he’s not about to betray that trust. He wouldn’t if the man under the hood had been anyone else, and he won’t just because it’s Oliver Queen. He stands. Takes a tiny step forward. He needs Oliver to know he _means_ this.

“I won’t,” he vows. “I promise.”

Oliver studies him for a moment, eyes meeting his, gaze scrutinizing, before he turns back to Mr. Diggle. “Did he see anything?”

Mr. Diggle shakes his head. “We tranq’ed him.”

“He saved your life,” Felicity interrupts, still clearly irritated by Oliver’s reaction. “How is this any different from when your mother shot you and you came to me for help?”

Horror sweeps through Barry at the question, though it’s not directed at him. “Your mother shot you?” he can’t help but ask. His words are ignored – Felicity’s still talking.

“Or when you brought Digg down here when he was poisoned with curare?”

Barry’d just been thinking again about the trauma the Green Arrow must have gone through to become the man he is today. He’d just been wondering about what had happened to Oliver Queen on that island to turn him from a playboy into a hero. But to hear that his own mother shot him…

Barry tries to picture _his_ mother shooting him. That his memories of her are faded by time stings, as always, but his brain still rebels at the very idea. He tries to imagine his father shooting him, or Joe, or even Iris. He can’t. Of course, Oliver must have been in costume at the time, but even so, how can someone just brush aside something like that?

“The difference is,” Oliver replies, low and fierce, “that I did my homework on both of you.”

He’s staring at Barry when he growls out his words. Paranoia – constantly feeling on edge, constantly being on guard. It’s one of the symptoms of PTSD. Not that that means anything, not that Barry’s a doctor of any sort, or that he can make any judgements after speaking to Oliver for less than five minutes, but…

Still, Oliver’s alive because his friends came to Barry. (They chose _him_ , out of everyone in Star City.) And Barry’s trustworthy, even if Oliver’s having trouble believing it.

He shakes his head. “I won’t tell anyone,” he promises yet again. “But… if they hadn’t brought me here, you’d be dead right now. Maybe you should think of that.” So far, he’s focused on nothing but Barry since he’d woken up. Barry can’t understand that. Sure, maybe there’s a (small) risk that his secret might get out now, but he’d almost _died_. He hasn’t once asked after his own health. (His _mother_ had _shot_ him. Barry doesn’t know what to think.)

Oliver turns away from him, expression resolute and unaltered. “That man that I fought in the bunker,” he says, still pointedly ignoring the issue of his own near-death experience, “he has what he needs to mass produce the serum from the island. And we have to stop him.”

Barry has a hundred more questions based on those two sentences alone, but he pushes them aside for the moment. That’s an issue he can help with, and he’s not about to turn down another opportunity to help the Green Arrow, whether the man appreciates it or not. (How can he not even _care_ that he’d almost died? How much must he have gone through, for this to seem normal to him?)

“He touched your skin when he grabbed your neck,” he tells the archer, refocusing. “I was able to absorb the residual oils from his skin, which, when added to a gel-based polymer, might be able to recreate his fingerprint.” There, that was short and sweet, wasn’t it, a good description without going into too much detail? Without asking the thousand questions on the tip of his tongue?

“Do that then,” Oliver bites out in Barry’s general direction. He’s still and stiff and tense for a moment, then he sweeps out of the room without another word said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long Author's Note ahead:
> 
> 1: Welcome to new readers. If you're not interest in Oliver Queen, you don't need to read the first two fics in this series to follow along - all you need to know is that this is an AU wherein Supergirl's (and therefore Superman's) Earth is also Earth-1. 
> 
> 2: To old readers who are following along with Part 2 of this series, this does get a bit ahead, timeline wise, of where we are there, so, bonus for you! You'll see Team Arrow's POV of these scenes when I post the next chapter for Stronger Together.
> 
> 3: I want readers of both series to be able to follow along with the timeline, so each chapter will continue to be posted "in real time". i.e., if the chapter starts on Dec 4th, I post it Dec. 4th. 
> 
> 4: I will not be marking this as a crossover, even though it will have plenty of interaction with characters from the other shows (notably Arrow, for now).
> 
> 5: The timing of the TV series is a little unclear, so I've changed a few things up for the Flash. He meets Oliver Queen and the OTA in the beginning of December, but I'm pushing back the accelerator explosion until January. I'll get a few chapters in before then, but then we'll see some major time skips as Barry spends nine months in a coma. 
> 
> 6: On that note, I really don't like the way the Flash handles metahumans overall (as in, every single one they run across is evil except for Barry, up to the point where the moment Cisco gets powers he wonders if he's going to be evil. You're telling me not a single innocent person was affected by the accelerator explosion?). Just a note. It shouldn't change the story much, but I thought I'd give everyone a heads up.
> 
> 7: Finally, the next chapter for this will be pick up where we left off, and be posted Dec. 9th. Feel free to ask me any questions if you're curious, my tumblr is the same as my AO3 name, if you don't want to ask in a comment.
> 
> Thanks for reading, let me know what you think!


	2. Promises

_December 9, 2013, late morning:_

“Never meet your heroes, right?” Felicity Smoak says with a wry grin as Oliver Queen walks away.

Barry huffs his amusement at the accuracy of the statement, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips but… Whatever Oliver’s reaction had been to him, Barry’s no less impressed with the Green Arrow than he was before. More impressed, actually, he thinks. He’d almost watched Oliver die only a few hours ago. (Almost watched Star City lose its hero.) And Oliver had jolted upright from his sleep like that was nothing, barely showing any signs of his injury.

Yeah, he’d tried to strangle Barry, but he hadn’t really looked like he’d meant it. He’d looked like he’d been surprised. Startled. Scared even. Barry’s a scientist. He understands that sometimes the body reacts to a perceived threat before the brain is aware of what it’s doing.

That Oliver had perceived him as a threat, that his reaction was so severe… It leaves Barry with no doubt that the man is the Green Arrow. (Not that there had been any doubt, what with the impressive set up and costume and the very real near-death experience, but he supposes it could be possible for some rich people to want to play dress up.)

He doesn’t really have an answer for Felicity though, so he gestures with the adhesive still in his hand. “Do you have any gel-based polymers?” he asks. He’s not about to turn down the chance to help the Green Arrow, regardless of what Oliver thinks of him, and anyway, this _was_ his case (if not entirely officially speaking).

Felicity actually grins, and Barry’s pleased he managed to pull her from her mood. “I’m sure we can find something,” she agrees. But she glances in the direction Oliver had gone before turning, worry clear in her expression.

“He’ll be fine,” Barry finds himself saying, before he can stop himself. He can’t really be sure. Doesn’t know if there’s something else he missed when tending to Oliver’s wounds – he’d focused mostly on the issue of his blood coagulating, but he’d watched Mr. Diggle check for broken bones, probing at Oliver’s ribs. Still, Oliver’s already upright and walking, despite what he’d just gone through. He’s the _Green Arrow_. Of course he’s going to be fine.

* * *

Truthfully, when the finger printing is over and done with, Barry doesn’t really have anything left to do in the underground fortress he seems to be trapped in now. Felicity and Diggle had, presumably, taken his luggage and phone when they’d tranquilized him, and though he’s fairly certain that Felicity would give both of them back if asked, he’s not quite ready to chance it with Mr. Diggle. Mr. Diggle had left at one point for breakfast while Oliver had been unconscious, and again later for lunch, so it’s not like Barry _needs_ to leave.

It’s not like he even wants to leave just yet, worries about his job aside. He’s in the Green Arrow’s _lair_. His base of operations. This is where all his equipment is, his software, his weapons. This is where he trains. This is where he’s plotted the downfall of countless criminals. (And, Barry can’t help but be all too aware, this is where he returns to when he’s injured.)

Without the looming specter of Oliver’s unconscious body dampening the mood between the three of them, Barry lets his feet roam, though he still tries (mostly) to keep his hands at his sides.

“I knew the vigilante had partners,” he can’t help but say eventually, after too long of keeping quiet, wandering over to the bow and arrows, beautifully displayed.

“They’re calling him the Green Arrow now,” Mr. Diggle corrects him half-heartedly, like he’s not really listening to Barry’s ramblings.

Even that can’t dampen Barry’s mood. He knows every name that’s been used to describe Oliver Queen’s alter ego – the Vigilante, the Hood, the Arrow. Green Arrow. But Oliver is, by definition, a vigilante, even if he’s also a hero.

“You three have messed with some really nasty people,” he continues, unfazed by the correction. “Count Vertigo, Dodger. The Huntress.” Malcolm Merlyn, he thinks but doesn’t say, because he’s had enough time to realize that Oliver taking down his mother might just be a sore point. (His own _mother_ shot him, and Barry’s desperate to ask for details about that too, but he has _some_ tact.)

“We weren’t keeping score,” Mr. Diggle replies, still somewhat absentmindedly, still focused on his work.

“I was,” Barry returns easily. Superman’s out there of course, and Barry’s been following eagerly for every snippet of a rumor about the supposed Batman from Gotham, but the Green Arrow’s in another league entirely. For one thing, for all that he hides in the shadows, he’s not as secretive as Batman. He’s hiding his identity, yes, but he’s not hiding his existence, even if he ( _Oliver Queen_ ) isn’t advertising it either. And Superman doesn’t patrol, doesn’t target specific people so much as just show up at the sight of crimes and disasters all across the world even if he seems to be based out of Metropolis.

Green Arrow’s… accessible. Human. _There_. He’s noticeable and he’s making an impact in his city and he’s just skilled enough to make people question whether or not he’s even human. He’s the only vigilante – hero – out there that Barry can easily keep track of. _Of course_ he’d been keeping score.

But he doesn’t get the chance to say anything more just then. The door at the top of the stairs clicks as it gets pushed open and Oliver makes his way down to join them, looking perfectly steady like he hadn’t woken up about twelve hours ago from an unconsciousness that had almost been death. He’s wearing a sweater that hides his muscles but not his solid frame and his motorcycle helmet is in one hand.

“I brought dinner,” he announces as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. There’s no fanfare to the words, just a simple, emotionless announcement, and he’s looking at Felicity and Mr. Diggle as he speaks, with barely a cursory glance toward Barry.

“That might just have to wait,” Mr. Diggle answers. (Darn it – Barry hadn’t wanted to say anything, but he _is_ hungry. The paper bag in Oliver’s other hand smells really good.)

“We found Cyrus Gold,” Felicity chimes in, spinning from her chair in front of the computers.

Oliver quirks an eyebrow, stepping closer to his partners. ( _His partners, because I actually get to see the Green Arrow in action!_ Barry can’t help but think excitedly.) “Who’s Cyrus Gold?”

“The human weapon that left you nearly dead the other night.” There’s a dark tinge to the reply that Barry understands. As excited as he is to be working with the Green Arrow, he’d almost watched a man die last night. That’s not so easily forgotten, even if Oliver seems to be ignoring it.

Well, everyone seems to be ignoring it. And Oliver’s still looking for an explanation. “I managed to pull a print off your neck after all,” he explains excitedly. ( _He’s helping_ _the_ _Green Arrow_!)

“I’ve had facial recognition software scanning closed circuit cameras all over town,” Felicity continues. “He was at the corner of Delgado and 25th about five minutes ago before we lost him.” She rattles off the street names easily and neither Oliver nor Mr. Diggle bat an eye. Barry wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that both of them had memorized every street inside city limits. He’s tried to consider a thousand times what goes into being a vigilante. Knowing your city is a big one.

“What else is at that intersection?” Oliver asks. He’s leaning slightly over Felicity’s shoulder, studying her screens intently.

“A parking lot, a market, a motel.”

“Can you hack it?”

Barry blinks, surprised by the apparent change in topic. Hack what?

“Let me check,” is Felicity’s only response, apparently unphased by the non-sequitur. She turns back to her computer screens fully, already typing as her chair settles.

Barry glances over at Mr. Diggle, but he doesn’t seem any more confused by the question than Felicity had been. Is she hacking the camera again? The question only distracts him momentarily though. He doesn’t care how confused he is, he’s watching the Arrow and his partners in action, he’s _helping_ them. He cannot get over how unbelievably _cool_ this is. Him, some nobody CSI from a city halfway across the country, is helping the hero of Star City.

He almost doesn’t notice when Oliver turns to face him. Almost – everything about Oliver is intense, from the lines of his body to the seriousness of his gaze. It’d be hard to _not_ notice him.

“The rat poison that you gave me,” the billionaire vigilante asks, “are there any side effects?”

Barry blinks again at the newest change in topic. He takes a moment to let his brain switch tracks, racking his memories for the answer. “Um, yeah,” most drugs have side effects after all, “I think hallucinations maybe,” he says with a frown, thinking hard. “And excessive sweating. Are you sweating excessively?” It doesn’t look like it, but he’s certainly not hallucinating. No one who was hallucinating would be so calm, would they?

“Wait, what?” Felicity asks distractedly, glancing up briefly before refocusing on her screens again.

“You’re hallucinating?” Mr. Diggle asks, concern evident from his tone. “Are you sure?”

Barry looks at Oliver, whose expression is calm, whose stance is ready to move but otherwise relaxed. There’s nothing about him that suggests that he’s hallucinating, now or earlier. Nothing except the way he responds to his partners’ questions.

“I saw someone who’s supposed to be dead,” he says plainly. There isn’t any more emotion in his words than there is on his face. He pauses for a moment. “She was on the island with me. There’s no chance she’s still alive.”

There’s no real grief obvious in Oliver’s words, but Barry thinks he can see it in his eyes anyway. He doesn’t want to focus on the death mentioned though. Doesn’t want to remember how close he’d been to panicking and letting the man in front of him die. And the questions he has have been bursting inside him since Oliver’d woken up. Now seems like the best time to break the tension. (Besides, Oliver’d practically just confirmed one of his theories!)

“You did train in a jungle or forest environment, then,” he bursts out. “Hence the green.” He regrets his words almost instantly – right, right, Oliver’s hallucinating a dead friend, definitely not the time. ( _How much has he been through though?_ Barry can’t help but wonder. He’d always supposed that being a vigilante was no easy task, that whoever the Green Arrow had been he’d been through some harsh training, but dead friends, a mother who’d shot him…)

Oliver’s deadpan look pulls him from his wayward thoughts. Right. Hallucinations. Much more important than Barry’s curiosity.

“I can draw some blood,” he says quickly. “Make sure there’s nothing else going on.” He’d had plenty of time to get a good look at the medical equipment the Arrow’s team keeps on hand, enough to know he can perform a basic analysis of Oliver’s blood, if not anything more forensic related.

Oliver wordlessly follows him over to the equipment, rolling up his sleeve without question and displaying his arm to Barry. For all his talk about not trusting him, he’s adapted easily enough to Barry’s presence.

“Can I ask you something?” Barry asks as he finishes drawing a quick sample. (See, he _can_ stop himself from blurting out his questions randomly. Of course, the intensity of Oliver’s gaze is a good antidote to impulsiveness. Nothing about him seems impulsive.)

The look Oliver gives him in return seems unamused but expectant. It’s not a no.

Barry barrels ahead and asks. “Why no mask? Not to tell you how to do your vigilante…ing, but the grease pain thing? It’s a poor identity concealer.” Compared to all the high-tech equipment surrounding him at the moment, it doesn’t really fit as part of the Arrow’s arsenal.

“So find me a mask that conforms perfectly to my face and doesn’t affect my ability to aim while I’m on the run,” Oliver responds calmly enough.

So he _has_ thought about it. Barry’d thought he must have, with as much careful thought as he seems to put into everything else. “You should look into a compressible micro fabric,” he replies, already making plans in his head. (He’s already helped Oliver this much. He has no intention of stopping now.)

“Too many people pay cash at the motel,” Felicity cuts in, reminding Barry that those in the lair with him are currently in the process of trying to track down the man who’d almost killed Oliver, “and they don’t have their own security cameras. Or, at least, no networked cameras. But I checked the stored feed at the intersection, and Gold was there about the same time yesterday. Unless he’s really into seafood markets, he’s staying there. Or somewhere nearby.”

Oh. She’d been hacking into the hotel. Motel. Whatever.

Oliver nods at the information, acting like he’s about to leave then and there before Mr. Diggle steps into his path. A brief three-way conversation ensues, Oliver’s partners’ concern for him all too obvious. Mr. Diggle is clearly more than just the billionaire’s bodyguard though, because he leaves with Oliver in the end, offering to “handle this one”. Even Barry can see that Oliver’s reluctant to agree, but agree he does. As the two of them leave together, Barry can’t help but glance over at Felicity’s anxious face.

The one left behind.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll figure out what’s wrong with Oliver.” (He can’t guarantee that, not really, but it seems like the thing to say.)

She gives him a tremulous smile in return. “You’d be the first,” she says, turning slowly back to her computers.

That seems… Well, Barry doesn’t want to judge. She knows Oliver better after all, and she’s just worried. An awkward silence settles over the two of them, the air thick with tension.

As the seconds tick by, Barry re-evaluates. He’s the only one feeling awkward – Felicity looks too worried to pay him too much mind. And there’s no reason to feel awkward. Barry’s here helping them. He’d saved Oliver’s life.

“Is it always like this?” he finds himself asking. He probably shouldn’t be bringing attention to it, but he can’t help himself. He wants to know everything about working with the Green Arrow. Even this.

“We’re not usually up against super soldiers,” Felicity says absently, worry clear in her tone. She’s working at _something_ , though Barry’s not sure what – there are three different applications open on three different screens and he’s not sure which she’s most focused on. “But yeah,” she admits, looking over at him. “When we know he’s about to be in a fight, yeah, it’s usually like this.”

_Does he get hurt a lot?_ Barry thinks, but that question, at least, he manages to hold back. There really is no point in drawing attention to that. Better to ask a distracting question, he figures. Something that’ll take Felicity’s mind off all the hard parts of being a vigilante’s support team.

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Felicity gives him a look, bemused by the question, but it seems to do the trick. Her brow scrunches in thought even as she turns back to her computers. “You would not believe the things we’ve seen,” she starts, and Barry can’t help but grin as she begins to ramble.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

Mr. Diggle and Oliver run into trouble while they’re out, but they get away mostly unscathed, or so they report over the comms. Oliver wraps Mr. Diggle’s wrist when they get back and prods his ribs to check for internal injuries in a way that suggests he has a lot of experience doing so. The look in Oliver’s gaze isn’t quite harsh, but it’s still intense, his face looking as if it’s carved from stone. Felicity hovers beside them, looking anxiously between the two. Barry hangs back.

“Don’t you dare second guess this,” Mr. Diggle says in response to the look Oliver’s giving him. “I made my choice.”

Oliver’s jaw seems to clench for a moment, and he looks over in Barry’s direction. Barry’s not really sure why _he’s_ being brought into this, but Mr. Diggle answers that question for him with his next words.

“Look,” he tells Oliver, “I get that you don’t trust him –” The bodyguard’s mouth snaps shut at another look from Oliver.

Oliver himself turns to face Barry again. “What you know could get you killed.”

A shiver runs through Barry. Oliver is _intense_. Barry already knew, he supposes, that there are people who would kill to know what he does now, but hearing Oliver say it almost lends the idea more impact. He nods solemnly. “I won’t tell –” He means to promise his silence again, but Oliver cuts him off.

“This isn’t about whether or not you intend to tell anyone anymore,” he says. “This is about whether or not someone can make you tell.”

Barry processes the words, takes a moment, and then realizes exactly what Oliver means by that. Yeah, there are people who would kill to know what he does – and probably people willing to torture him for that information. He thinks again of Oliver’s scars, a frown slipping onto his face. He’d imagine that Oliver knows a fair bit about torture. It’s not a pleasant thought.

“The more you know, the more danger you’re in.”

The way Barry sees it, it doesn’t matter how much he knows. If he knows something, he’s already in danger (though, honestly, it’s not like most people in Central City are going to care, or even suspect _him_ of knowing anything about the Green Arrow). But he gets what Oliver means too, and he can tell the other man is waiting for his response. This is serious.

He swallows, and when he speaks, he thinks he’s managed to keep his usual excitement out of his tone. “I… I always knew the Green Arrow had partners,” he manages to say, trying to put the frantic thoughts he’s had the past twenty-four hours into words. “I mean, I didn’t _know_ , but… I always guessed. I… what you do, what the three of you do, it’s worth the risk. If I can help, I want to.”

He’s not sure how Oliver takes his words. The intensity in the man’s gaze doesn’t waver. But he nods once, turning back to his partners.

“We need to let Lance and Roy in on the situation,” he says, “and then I need to talk to Tommy and Thea.”

Barry only recognizes the last two names – Tommy Merlyn, friend of the Queens and son of the creator of the miniquake, and Thea Queen, Oliver’s sister. Do they both also know the truth, then?

“What are you planning to tell Roy?” Mr. Diggle asks.

“Nothing specific.”

“And Lance?”

“I don’t know how long it’ll take me to recover. Alone, I won’t be enough to take Gold down. Not for a while.”

“I’ll see if Lance is on-shift tonight, if you want to start with Roy?” Felicity offers.

Oliver nods and goes to get changed.

Barry mostly hangs back as the team shifts tracks, Felicity turning back to her computers, Mr. Diggle swallowing a few Advil with some water. Lance, whoever he is, is available, so Oliver gives him a quick call, sets up a meeting, then heads out. The silence this time is definitely less tense, and Barry understands what Felicity had meant when she’d clarified that it was only tense when they knew Oliver was about to be in a fight.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Mr. Diggle suggests, shortly after Oliver leaves, nodding towards the cot in the corner. “You’ve been up all day.”

He _has_ been, but he gives a look to the blood sample he has running before he responds, standing and stretching his limbs slightly. It’s been easy to keep his excitement up working with the Green Arrow and his team, but he _is_ exhausted, now that Mr. Diggle’s brought his attention to it. “Is there… is there any chance I could get my stuff?” he asks. He could do with a change of clothes, and now that he’s thinking about it, Iris and Joe are probably worried that he hasn’t been in contact. He’d told them he was planning to head home soon, after all.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promises again quickly, when no one immediately responds to his question.

Mr. Diggle nods. “It’s not just about Oliver,” he says strongly. “If people knew that you knew who the Arrow is, you’d be in danger too. Your family. Your friends.”

Barry nods back too, trying to seem as calm and collected as the man in front of him. “I don’t really have many people,” he admits honestly. Just Joe and Iris, mostly. “No one will ever find out that I know.” Even if he wants to tell Iris, he won’t.

Mr. Diggle studies him for a moment, nods again, and then steps aside, presumably to get Barry’s things. They aren’t all that well hidden, in the end, but they are tucked aside. He takes the handle for his suitcase first, then his phone, wallet, and keys that had been in his pockets, shifting so he can unlock his phone first.

Eleven unread messages, four missed calls, two voicemails. Probably all from Joe and Iris. Joe’s the type to call once, leave a voicemail, and wait for you to call him back. Iris, on the other hand, tends to call, skip the message, and then call back again later. Barry winces at the concern in the texts first, sends a quick message on a group chat to Iris and Joe ( _‘Got held up, sorry.’_ ), then winces again as he looks at the four missed calls. One’s from Joe, with a voicemail, and two are from Iris, but the fourth is from Captain Singh.

“Probably too late to call my boss, isn’t it?” he asks aloud. God, he hopes he isn’t fired over this. (But then, isn’t this worth it? Knowing the impossible is real? Helping the Green Arrow?)

“Probably,” Mr. Diggle agrees, far more jovially than Barry’s feeling at the moment. “Feel free to use the shower if you need it.”

Barry glances in the bathroom, picturing the warm water that might await him, but really, he just wants a change of clothes and a pillow. “I think I just want to sleep, right now,” he says, glancing around until he locates the cot again.

“I can get you some fresh blankets –” Felicity starts to offer.

Barry quickly cuts her off, shaking his head. “I’m good,” he says, grinning at the offer, but not wanting to cause them any more trouble. “Thanks.”

Felicity grins back, Barry hovers awkwardly for a moment – _why am I so_ bad _at this?_ – and then takes his suitcase to the bathroom to change. He’s out in seconds when he finally does lay his head down on the cot, never mind that Felicity and Mr. Diggle are still working quietly not too far away. It’s been a long day.

* * *

* * *

_December 10, 2019, early morning:_

The sun’s probably not even up when Barry wakes up, but even with how exhausted he’d been he hadn’t really expected to sleep through the night. His excitement about working with the Green Arrow contributes to that, yeah, but also just the fact that he’d fallen asleep in a strange place with people he didn’t really know all that well, no matter how cool and heroic they were.

He stumbles to the bathroom first, washing his face to wake himself up fully and changing again, before turning to his phone. The call to Joe is easy enough – the man’s irritated but this isn’t the first time Barry’s left chasing down a lead.

“I’m not covering for you if you miss another day,” he says warningly.

“No, no, I know,” Barry reassures him. “I’ll be back soon.”

The phone call to Captain Singh, though similarly irritated, is also rather simple, all things considered. At the very least, it’s short. He saves Iris for last, and lets her berate him for a few minutes for making her worry before he derails her with promises that he’ll tell her everything when he gets home. (He won’t – can’t – tell her everything, but he’ll fill her in on the crime he’d come for at least, everything that had happened before the tranquilizer dart at the train station.)

“I’ll be home soon,” he promises her.

“By tonight then?” she asks, loosening up. They’re both well aware of Barry’s habit of being late.

He can’t help but grin as they say their goodbyes.

Oliver and Mr. Diggle are at one of the tables together, both of them sitting down, but he hasn’t seen Felicity yet. He’s not sure if he missed her and she’s in the bathroom, or if she’d gone home sometime while he’d been asleep. Probably the latter. He doesn’t blame her for that. (The cot isn’t _uncomfortable_ , but it’s thin. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be a second one hidden anywhere.)

Mr. Diggle hands him a breakfast sandwich, still wrapped in paper, when he joins them. “Thanks,” Barry responds to the gesture distractedly. “Where’s Felicity?”

He might be late a lot, but sometimes he’s got great timing.

“Here!” Felicity says from behind him, at the top of the stairs. She looks fresh and bright, wearing a new sky-blue blouse flowing over black pants. Her lipstick is bright red and Barry _definitely_ should not be staring too much. He blushes and looks away. “I’m your ride to the train station.”

He blinks, pulled from his train of thought at the mention of an actual train. “What?”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” Oliver’s calm voice says, drawing Barry back to the present with his usual intensity, “but if I heard you correctly you told your boss you’d be home yesterday.”

“And the blood sample’s done,” Felicity adds on, setting down her purse and picking up a small stack of papers before Barry can think of a reason why he should stay (he really shouldn’t, but that doesn’t change the fact that he _wants_ to). “Unless there’s something, wrong…”

“It’s the least we can do,” Mr. Diggle interrupts, getting the topic back on track, “after making you miss your train.”

“Oh, uh, I’d already missed it,” Barry responds absentmindedly, flipping through the data the instruments have collected on Oliver’s blood. _That looks fine, that looks fine, that looks fine…_ He looks up after a moment to find Felicity hovering impatiently at his side. Oliver looks impassive, but even the normally stoic Mr. Diggle has a look of concern on his face.

“Do you know what’s in my system?” Oliver asks.

Barry falters momentarily. “Um… There’s nothing in your blood, it’s clean.” Probably not what Oliver wants to hear, but he’s not about to lie to the Green Arrow.

“Then why is he hallucinating?” Felicity asks quickly, shifting as if she wants to read through the data herself, never mind that she’s already told Barry she knows very little about biology.

Barry shakes his head. He’s not a doctor, but from what little he can see there’s nothing wrong with Oliver. “I don’t know, but whatever your problem is,” he says, directing his words toward the hero, “it’s not pharmacological. It’s psychological.”

“It’s in your head,” Barry finishes, at the same time as Oliver agrees with an “It’s in my head.”

Silence meets the announcement. Barry’s just a CSI, he doesn’t have to inform people of their loved one’s deaths or anything like that, but he still has to deliver bad news to the detectives on his cases sometimes. It’s never enjoyable.

“Thank you for your help,” Oliver says calmly, like Barry hadn’t just told him he might be suffering from a minor mental breakdown.

Barry blinks again. “Oh, uh…” Nothing seems to rattle the guy. Nearly dying certainly hadn’t.

Oliver raises an eyebrow at him. “Unless there’s something else…”

“No, uh, no, nothing else. Just, uh…” They’re taking him to the train station, Barry remembers. There really is no reason for him to stick around. This is his last chance to say something. “Thanks, I guess. For letting me be a part of this. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Oliver nods once at him, and Barry moves to collect his things. Phone, wallet, keys… he really hopes he hasn’t left anything behind.

But Oliver stops him before he can even set one foot on the stairs. “Before you go…”

Barry feels his stomach plummet. Uh oh, what had he done? Is this one last threat to keep the secret? Oliver’s still got that intense look in his eyes, the one that never seems to leave, as he hands something to Barry.

Barry takes it, surprised to find a phone in his hands, sleek, black, and expensive, nothing like the three-year old Kord phone now in his pocket. “What’s this?” he finds himself asking. Stupid question. It’s obviously a phone.

“It’s a way to get in touch,” Oliver admits. “I owe you.”

Barry shakes his head quickly. It was an honor to work with the Green Arrow. And Felicity’d already given him her number, so it’s not like he couldn’t keep in touch if he’d wanted to. But he recognizes the significance of the gesture and his fingers curl protectively over the phone. If anyone wants to take it from him, they’ll have to pry it away from his dead body. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says instinctively.

Oliver doesn’t respond to that. “It’s for emergencies only,” he says instead, nodding at the phone.

“Of course. I promise you, I won’t betray your trust.” No one will ever know he has the phone.

“Right, well,” Felicity chimes in, “don’t want to miss this train too. You ready?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, thanks again,” Barry says awkwardly, waving a goodbye before he grabs onto his suitcase and follows Felicity up the stairs. The walk to the car is silent, Barry staring mostly reverently at the phone in his hands, trying to process what it means, but he and Felicity, after getting over their typical conversational awkwardness, manage to have a pleasant enough chat on the drive.

They pull up to the train station with plenty of time to spare.

“There you go, on time!” Felicity declares pleasantly.

Barry gets out of the car, but hesitates before he shuts the door, remembering a conversation they’d had while Mr. Diggle and Oliver had been out. He lets out a chuckle that’s probably a bit forced. “Yeah,” he agrees. “For once. But, uh, if you ever decide that Oliver Queen isn't the guy for you, or um, if you ever come to Central City…”

“Coffee?” Felicity asks for him.

Barry grins, relieved. “I could do coffee,” he agrees.

* * *

Felicity’s words and parting smile linger with Barry as he purchases his ticket and waits for the next train to Central City to arrive, but by the time he’s actually boarded the train and taken his seat his mind has switched tracks.

How could it not have? He’d _met_ the Green Arrow. And not only had he met the Green Arrow but he’d been inside his base of operations, worked with his partners, helped save his life, _and_ seen the man under the hood. Over twenty-four hours later, Barry is still reeling, not quite certain that the last few days of his life had been entirely real.

First, he’d met Oliver Queen and worked a case for him involving a criminal with superhuman strength. ( _Proof,_ that the impossible exists in humans and not just aliens.) Then he’d seen Green Arrow, except that mere seconds after spotting the costume laid out on the table in front of him he’d also seen the hero’s identity and learned that the billionaire he’d been so surprised to have met _is_ the Green Arrow. Oliver Queen is Star City’s hero. He’d saved the city from Malcolm Merlyn’s earthquake machines. He’s targeted the rich and brought down corruption. He regularly fights off street crime, stops assaults, and saves lives. He has pinpoint accuracy with his bow and amazing physicality when it comes to the way he moves and fights.

He is also, Barry reflects, pretty scary. Intense, at the very least. Sitting in his seat on the train back to Central City, Barry’s hand moves to his throat at the memory. He can still feel Oliver’s phantom fingers holding on tight. But even half unaware of his surroundings, his mind no doubt muddled by his injuries, Oliver had been scarily controlled.

Barry’s – well, he’s not a cop, but he sees as many bodies as they do. Even in his relatively short tenure at the CCPD he’s seen his fair share of strangulation victims. There had never been any danger, in the lair beneath the billionaire’s nightclub, that Barry might become one of those victims. Oh, there had been the _threat_ of it, certainly – Barry’d seen the anger and determination in Oliver’s eyes quite clearly – but the hero had also known what he’d been doing. The hold had rendered Barry immobile but it hadn’t so much as bruised in the time that’s passed, even if he’d been sore for a short while.

And as scared as he had been in that moment, Barry doesn’t really blame Oliver for his reaction. The Green Arrow wears his hood for a reason – and Barry’s seen what’s under it. He still can’t believe that Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow, that _he_ knows who the Green Arrow is. It’s hard to wrap his head around.

The Green Arrow isn’t just Star City’s hero, he’s one of Barry’s heroes too. The things the man is capable of, the things he’s done…

Barry wants to tell everyone he sees about Star City’s vigilante. Before, he probably would have – he’d started sprouting his theories to Felicity, the first friendly face he’d come across, the moment they were alone at the crime scene, eager to know if she’d ever seen him. But now his new knowledge stops his mouth. He has a hundred new questions now, a thousand things he wants to know, but he’d seen the way Oliver had reacted to the possibility of Barry spilling his secret.

He’d born the brunt of that reaction. He isn’t going to betray the trust he’d promised, even if that means he has to avoid discussing the topic of the Green Arrow entirely.

There’s _so much_ Barry wants to know, so much information he’s learned in such a short amount of time. His brain keeps cycling through the sequence of events, replaying them over and over: hearing the report on the radio and realizing it was something out of the ordinary; realizing he was going to _Star City_ ; seeing the evidence of superhuman strength in front of him; meeting Oliver Queen; working with Felicity; and then… The dart in his neck. The Green Arrow, unconscious and dying. Oliver Queen’s face under the hood.

Saving the Green Arrow’s life. The fear and indignation he’d felt when Oliver had responded by threatening his life in return. Talking with Felicity and John Diggle.

He’d come to Star City with the hope of finding the impossible and the slightest sliver of excitement that he just might meet someone who’d actually seen the Green Arrow in person. Instead he’s gotten proof that the impossible exists – Oliver’d confirmed it, even if the police hadn’t – and learned who the man under the hood really is.

There’s a phone in Barry’s pocket that proves the entire sequence of events wasn’t just a happy delusion. He has the Green Arrow’s phone number. The Green Arrow has _his_ phone number. Barry’s never going to let go of the device – if Oliver ever does decide to call him, he wants to be sure he can be back in Star City in a flash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Barry's back in Central City, this story will be slow going until October, and mostly canon up to then too, but hopefully I can hold your interest. Thanks for reading. Chapter 3: Hope of a Future, should be posted December 17th.


	3. Hope of a Future

_December 17-January 1, 2013:_

The rest of December passes quickly for Barry, but his mind continues to linger on the encounters he’d had in Star City. The weight of his new phone had sat heavily in his pocket for a few days, but eventually he’d began to leave it in his lab when he went out on cases, wary of questions from having two phones. It was doubtful the Arrow would call him, and anyway, he was certain that Oliver had his regular number regardless.

Barry doesn’t doubt that his new phone is encrypted – probably unhackable to anyone but Felicity, probably untraceable, probably the most secure line on his side of the Missouri (unless the Arrow had given another phone to anyone else on the eastern half of the United States) – but that doesn’t change the fact that his other phone works just fine. He texts Felicity with it fairly regularly after all, and though they kept their conversations to mundane things for the most part – Barry has spent enough time around cops to know not to leave anything incriminating in a text message, and he isn’t about to accidentally break his promise to Oliver by doing anything so stupid as talking about the Green Arrow on an unsecure line – she hasn’t mentioned anything about Oliver being seriously hurt, or suffering any more side effects.

Of course, Barry had worried – hallucinations are nothing to sneeze at, regardless of how calm Oliver had reacted to the prospect – but Felicity had managed to tell him, in a roundabout sort of way, that Oliver had gotten better, and that was that. She tells him on the seventeenth that he’s gotten his gift, and is wearing it every night now. Barry still grins whenever he thinks of that. Oliver had been intense, yes, but no less impressive for it. Maybe he doesn’t trust Barry, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’d accepted Barry’s help – is still accepting it, by wearing the mask Barry had made for him as quick as he’d been able.

Part of him wishes he could see the look in person, but he knows he doesn’t have the time for another trip to Star City so soon after the last, even if they’ve finally caught the perpetrator of the crime he’d helped solve while there. Captain Singh had been angry and Joe frustrated and Iris patiently amused, but they handled his absence the same way they always had, excepting Iris. Joe didn’t much appreciate his crazy theories anymore – he’s heard too many of them over the years, Barry supposes (and deep down he knows that Joe has always considered his father to be guilty) – but Iris has never been anything but supportive, even if Barry doesn’t know if she really believes any of it. Regardless, he can’t tell her about the Arrow, or Oliver, but he can tell her about the case he’d gone to Star City for. Even if the police in Star City seem to be keeping things quiet, Barry knows Iris can keep a secret.

Talking with Iris, he lets his excitement bubble up again at the fact that he’s _finally, finally_ , found evidence of the impossible. If there’s a drug out there capable of giving a person super strength, who is there to say there isn’t one that could grant someone super speed? From what little he’d heard about the Mirakuru during Team Arrow’s discussions (Felicity’s name for the trio, though she’d told him that under her breath when Oliver hadn’t been around, and Mr. Diggle’s reaction to the name had been an amused smirk and rolled eyes), it was developed during World War II by the Japanese. That means it’s over seventy years old – it’s not some new-fangled, modern science. Which means that it’s perfectly plausible that a drug to create super speed in humans had existed a decade ago.

Of course, with Superman’s existence clear, Barry doesn’t (entirely) discount the possibility that it was an alien of some sort who’d murdered his mother. The man of steel is certainly very fast all on his own. But even knowing that, the possibility doesn’t seem likely. (Or, if it is, Barry can find the alien in question the same way he tracks down every other instance of the impossible, in which case it doesn’t really matter in the end.)

Iris, in response to his tale, is suitably impressed. Skeptical, because she’s always had a skeptic’s heart – Iris doesn’t take things at face value, when they really matter; she likes to dig in deep and make sure she has the truth before she commits to anything – but she’s still pleased for him. She warns him that it’s not proof of anything to do with his mother’s death (and he knows that well enough, he supposes – part of his excitement about the case comes from having met the Green Arrow, but he can’t exactly tell her that) but she also encourages him to keep looking, passing along all the news articles of the weird she’d come across in the week or so he was gone. Most of them will probably turn out to be nothing, as always, but he appreciates that she encourages him to keep looking.

Other than that, nothing in Central City is really different. It _feels_ like it should be. Barry’s part of the Green Arrow’s inner circle now. He knows who the man under the hood is. But Star City is on the west coast, so far removed from Central City, in the middle of the country, and though everyone around him undoubtedly knows about the Green Arrow, most people rarely think about Star City’s hero. (Or Metropolis’, for that matter, or Gotham’s shadowed vigilante.) He’s not a part of their lives.

Barry feels like he’s going to burst with the secret for about a week, until the feeling simmers down into just a weird sort of attachment. Looking around at the people around him, he wonders how he’d ever lived his life without knowing this secret. It’s become a part of him now, and it makes him feel somehow different from everyone else. He knows the Green Arrow’s secret. But it’s more than that – he’d saved someone’s life, and he can’t tell Iris about that either.

It’s a strange sort of feeling, to know that simply by helping the Green Arrow (as if there had been anything _simple_ about it) he’s made a real, tangible difference in the world. If Barry had been interested in the Arrow’s career before he’d left Star City, he follows it religiously afterward. Every life Oliver saves… Well, it’s not on _him,_ Barry knows, but he’d helped make it happen. It’s a quiet sort of awe that doesn’t fade as quickly as his desire to blurt the truth out to everyone he comes across.

He knows Oliver Queen, Star City’s hero. He’s worked with him. He’s helped him. He’s not only seen the proof of the impossible, but he’s seen a determination similar to his own echoed in someone else’s eyes.

It’d taken him a while to realize that was what it is, but once the thought occurs to Barry he can’t stop thinking about it. About the intensity of Oliver’s gaze – the intensity of his words, his movements, his actions. There’s no doubt the other man’s a hero. Barry hadn’t even questioned it, seeing the man in costume. It had been a surprise beforehand, but after the fact, knowing what he knows… There’s nothing surprising about it.

Barry’s no hero. He doesn’t have the intensity of Oliver Queen, doesn’t have the physical prowess or the ability to help people the way Oliver does. But that determination he’d seen… Barry’s felt a connection to Oliver since he’d first stood up to the man. The day after Felicity texts him about the mask, after he’s spent the past twenty four hours wondering how it looked on Oliver, if it fit right, if it limited the man’s sight the way he’d been worried about, he gets a text on the phone Oliver had given him.

A picture is worth a thousand words, Barry knows, and the picture Oliver sends him says it all, Barry figures. Maybe someone else wouldn’t make a big deal of it, maybe he’s reading more into it than there is. But seeing the picture of the Green Arrow’s mannequin, covered in Oliver’s suit _and_ with Barry’s mask – Oliver’s mask – resting on top – Barry finally realizes the connection he’d felt with Oliver, and wonders if maybe Oliver feels it too. They’re both committed to a goal, and they’ll both do anything to see it through, he knows now.

The picture means more to Barry than any thank you ever could.

“You seem… different,” Iris says at family dinner one night, about three days after Oliver’d texted Barry, while Joe’s in the bathroom.

It’s been over a week since he’s returned from Star City, which means just about a week since they’d had their discussion of Barry’s part in taking down the enhanced criminal Cyrus Gold, but even if they haven’t discussed it since, Iris has always been observant. (Barry loves that about her, though he’s never been able to say so.)

“I just…” he’s grinning widely, he knows, still, because he’d seen evidence of the impossible, he’d helped the Green Arrow (and Oliver is wearing the mask _he_ gave him), but he pauses to look around for Joe. Supportive or not, Barry knows Joe’s hoping that Barry will one day give up his search for the impossible. Right now, his foster father is nowhere in sight. “I have proof now, you know? And if this is possible…”

“Maybe other things are too?” Iris agrees, offering her own grin in return.

Barry’s relieved she gets it. He honestly doesn’t know if, truthfully, she thinks his dad is innocent, but regardless of how she feels, she’s never stopped supporting him. “Yeah. Exactly.”

His good mood lasts the rest of the month, through the small Christmas party the three of them throw together, and the New Year’s Eve party they attend, first at a bar with what seems like half the station and their families, then finishing off at the West family home as the clock rounds midnight.

It’s a new year, and a new hope hovers within Barry’s chest. Aliens exist. Drugs that can give people super strength exist. His father didn’t kill his mother – and Barry’s going to prove it. He’s getting closer. He can tell.

* * *

_January 14, 2014:_

Truthfully, though the news of the particle accelerator consumes most of the beginning of Barry’s January, he can’t stop thinking about Oliver Queen. At least, when he has the free time, between cases and his continued searches into the impossible.

The particle accelerator is exciting – exciting enough that even Iris is probably starting to tire of hearing him talk about it – but so is the new drive that seems to have taken over Barry’s soul. It’s not just proof of the impossible, other than the existence of aliens, it’s what Oliver is capable all on his own. Proof, that not only is the impossible real, but the ordinary can become the extraordinary. In the month after his trip to Star City, Barry’s half tempted to dive into Oliver’s past, wondering how someone can become so amazing after such an ordinary life.

Perhaps not ordinary, in Oliver’s case, growing up as the son of billionaires, but regardless, Barry holds himself back after only a few cursory searches reveal only information about Oliver’s playboy past. Everything he’d seen about Oliver had shown him to be an intensely private man. (He’d seemed intense about everything, truthfully.) He doesn’t need to pry into the man’s past anyway. It had been his time on that island that had turned him into a hero, and as far as Barry knows there’s no record in the media of what had happened to him there. Whatever had gone down on that island, Oliver’s keeping the truth of it close.

Barry can’t blame him. He doesn’t imagine it was pleasant, in any capacity. Felicity’s voice rings in his head ( _‘How is it any different from when your mother shot you?’_ ), Oliver’s gruff words haunt his dreams ( _‘I saw someone who’s supposed to be dead. She was on the island with me. There’s no chance she’s still alive.’_ ). Oliver doesn’t want to talk about it, so Barry won’t pry. He knows all he needs to know, just seeing the end results.

And if Oliver – whatever trauma he might have suffered – is capable of such heroics, well… Barry doesn’t want to downplay Oliver’s achievements. He doesn’t think half the people in the world – a tenth of them, even a fraction of a percentage – would have come away from whatever happened on that island as even half the hero Oliver is now. Still, if Oliver, with no super speed, or super strength, or alien abilities, can become the Green Arrow…

Doesn’t that mean Barry can do more? Be more? That they can all do more?

Humanity is capable of incredible, wonderful things, Barry knows, if everyone could only just apply themselves. And it’s _hard_ , he knows, he’s not downplaying Oliver’s achievements, not trying to shame everyone who’s never made the news for saving a life, because there’s nothing _simple_ about what Oliver does, but as January ticks by, Barry finds himself aiming his determination not just at freeing his father from prison, but at making the world a little brighter.

He’s already helping to solve crimes, but he can do more, he knows, and it’s Oliver that inspires him to do so. He can hold a door for someone even if he’s already late, he can give money to the people who need it, and donate his time to others. Little things, but he has faith that they add up.

All these thoughts run through Barry’s mind as January passes, coalescing, forming into something real, until an unexpected news story shocks him beyond belief. Staring at the headline, he forgets all about the particle accelerator, about his case load, about the way he’s been inspired, even about his father. All he can think about is Oliver Queen.

And how absolutely wrong the media is.

_Green Arrow Blamed for Killing Star City Mayor_ , the headlines scream, and all Barry can think for a moment is _wrong, wrong, wrong_ before he’s scrambling for his phone, tucked away in a desk drawer that he knows no one will ever search.

Maybe before he would have hesitated, maybe before he would have wondered if the Green Arrow had returned to his old ways, or maybe just hit an artery that he hadn’t meant to, but he’s met Oliver Queen now. Oliver did not kill Star City’s mayor. Maybe he has no right to be so confident, after only knowing Oliver for such a short time, after being brought into the man’s confidence against his will, against what Oliver had wanted, but there’s no doubt in Barry’s mind.

Archer or not, whoever killed Star City’s mayor was not the true Green Arrow.

In the end, it’s not uncertainty that has Barry hesitating before he can dial. He knows the truth. He just can’t help but remember Oliver’s words – the phone is for emergencies only. Not just for him to… To what? To tell Oliver he knows he didn’t do it? What would Oliver care? How much is the support of one man, halfway around the country, going to help him?

_But it wasn’t an emergency when Oliver texted me_ , Barry’s brain reminds him, staring down at the phone in his hands. That had just been a thank you. So, no, calling even when it’s not an emergency isn’t the problem, but calling just to voice his confidence in the man? It’s not that Barry doesn’t believe Oliver would appreciate it, it’s just… he doesn’t really know the man _that_ well, however much they’d worked together. What if Oliver just considers the call a waste of time? _He’s got to be really busy_ , Barry figures – after all, apparently his whole city (the whole _country_ , given the news) is under the impression he’d killed Star City’s mayor.

Barry’s heart settles as his brain comes to a decision. There’s only one number in the phone’s contact list. He dials it.

It rings once. Twice. And then…

_“Yes?”_

It’s Oliver’s voice, gruff, short, and altered by the software of the phone in the same way the hero’s voice is altered with his modulator in person.

_You know what you’re doing, Barry_ , Barry tells himself. No matter how intimidating Oliver Queen is, Barry isn’t going to back down.

“I, it’s Barry,” he says, stupidly, flustered anyway – of course Oliver already knows who he is, caller ID exists, doesn’t it? “I mean, I just…” _Get it together Barry._ “I saw the news. I know you didn’t kill the mayor.”

_“I appreciate the vote of confidence,”_ Oliver says, not sounding particularly appreciative ( _I knew he’d be irritated!_ Barry scolds himself.) _“But –”_

“No, I just, that’s not why I’m calling. I mean, that’s not the only reason why I was calling. You said, you said that I might be able to help you, in the future, with, with forensics, or –” Well, medical assistance probably isn’t needed here. “If there’s anything I can do, if I can help prove –”

He’s not sure if he’s imaging it or not, but Oliver’s voice seems slightly softer as he interrupts Barry this time. _“The SCPD are looking into it – I know a detective. Right now, he’s willing to take my word that I’m innocent. I’ll call you if anything changes.”_ Oliver hangs up the phone.

Well, Barry’d already known that Oliver isn’t the… the _politest_ hero around. _But that wasn’t a no_ , he reminds himself. In fact, it’s a far cry from the way Oliver had reacted when he’d woken from unconsciousness to find Barry in his lair. He hadn’t shot Barry down, he’d explained what was going on to him and left the possibility of future work open.

It isn’t as though he’d expected Oliver to jump at the chance either. How much can Barry really analyze from Central City? He isn’t sure the captain – or Joe – would be nearly so understanding about another trip so soon after his last one. But Oliver _isn’t shutting Barry out_. There’s apparently at least one detective in the SCPD that believes Green Arrow is innocent, probably that Detective Lance that Barry knows has worked with them before.

There’s nothing he can do to help – not to help Oliver, at least. But there’s another man he knows who was unjustly accused of murder, and he’s been sitting in prison for the last decade because of it. Oliver will call him if he needs help – right now, right here, there are other people he can help too. Starting with his father.

* * *

_January 17, 2014, night:_

“Okay, I am ready to see this atom smasher… smashing.”

Barry looks up from his work, grinning at the familiar sight of Iris West. She’s as gorgeous as ever as she strolls into his lab, entirely comfortable with her surroundings. Perks of being a cop’s daughter, he knows, and friends with him too – everyone at the station knows who Iris West is, and most of the people Barry works with have already met her. The people at the front desk rarely bother to even give her a visitors’ badge anymore.

He knows the grin on her face is entirely for him. Well, not in _that_ sort of way (if only), but the only reason she knows anything at all about the particle accelerator is because of him. She certainly isn’t interested in the science behind it. (You can’t actually _see_ the atoms “smashing”, as Iris had put it.) She’ll probably be disappointed in what it actually looks like. But she’d agreed to go with him nevertheless, which is how Barry knows her grin is for him.

She knows _he_ is going to enjoy it, and that is all that matters to her. Barry wants to correct her about what a particle accelerator does, wants to babble on and on about how _cool_ it is that they are actually building one in Central City, that a private company has actually managed to create one, rather than just the national, government funded, labs. It’s a sign of scientific progress, and a huge one. He’s been looking forward to it for months – since it was first announced, really.

But he doesn’t correct her. Work comes first, especially work as serious as the case he is on now. He feels his grin fading as his mind returns to the case at hand.

“There was a shooting today,” he tells his best friend. Not exactly privileged information, though they both know he isn’t supposed to share details about the case. “Your dad needs me to process some evidence, which means I don’t know if we’re going to be able to make it to STAR Labs.” ( _Your_ dad, because however close he is with Joe West, Barry still has a father – a father who will see the outside again someday. He’ll make sure of it.) He moves around as he speaks, from one computer to his board to another computer, and Iris trails after him.

“But seeing this thing turn on is like your dream,” she counters. “Your sad, little nerdy dream.” She picks at a fry still on his desk from his attempt at eating something resembling dinner. “Besides, I canceled a date for this.”

“Hands off my fries,” Barry says incredulously, grinning as he snatches them away from her. “Unbelievable.” She’s the one who’s always chiding him and Joe to eat something when they work overtime. He wanders back to the first computer, wishing he could say something else. Of _course_ seeing the accelerator turn on is his dream, but the Mardon brothers are serious business. Besides, even if he doesn’t see it turn on, the accelerator will still be there tomorrow. The Mardon brothers’ next victim might not be. (Which isn’t to say that Barry doesn’t really, _really_ wish he could go. Maybe they still can make it, even though they might be running a little late. There’s only so much overtime he can put in, after all, and he doesn’t need to be present for every analysis to run.)

“I’m stress eating over my dissertation,” Iris says easily, following him again. “We started selling cronuts at Jitters. I ate two today,” she continues, as if one day of stress eating is really that big of a deal. She snatches another fry, waving it at him. “If I don’t graduate soon, I’m gonna be more muffin top than woman.”

Barry can’t hold back his grin as she speaks and his reply is automatic. “You look amazing,” he says.

She scoffs lightly at the compliment, browsing through the papers on his desk now, and Barry turns away, wishing he could muster up the courage to say more.

“What is so important about this particle accelerator anyway?” Iris asks absentmindedly.

Well, maybe he can babble a little, Barry decides, even if he is technically working. He loses himself in the science for a moment, knowing that however much Iris doesn’t understand she’s always been supportive, and he’s grinning widely at the thought of all they’ll learn from the accelerator at the end of it as Iris claps a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve got to get yourself a girlfriend,” she says, but she’s smiling, so Barry knows she’s amused by his own enthusiasm.

_Sure,_ he dreams about saying to her one day. _Pick you up Friday night at seven?_ But it’s only a fantasy, something he’s never been able to say out loud, and anyway Joe interrupts them before he can reply.

“Hey, leave him alone. He’s working.” But there’s amusement in Joe’s voice too – he probably doesn’t entirely disagree with his daughter.

He’s just in time anyway – Barry’s analysis had turned up what he’d hoped for, and a break in the forensics side of the case means he’s free to call it a night. Which means he and Iris are free to head out to STAR Labs.

It should be a perfect night. There’s a chance of rain on the horizon and there are protestors outside STAR Labs, but it’s a nice night, all things considered, unseasonably warm for the middle of January, and he’s with Iris, and they’re about to witness the closest thing to a scientific miracle Barry can think of.

Harrison Wells introduces himself smoothly – as if there’s anyone there who doesn’t know who he is – and Barry loses himself in the man’s confident speech about the future until a shout from Iris pulls him back to reality.

“Oh, hey, my laptop! It's got my dissertation.”

He spins in time to see a thief, running off with Iris’ bag, and then doesn’t hesitate. She’d been right: watching the particle accelerator turn on _is_ his dream. But she’ll always be more important to him. He takes off after the thief, though truthfully he doesn’t even think about what he’s going to do if he manages to catch up with the man. He doesn’t get much time to think: the thief waits around a corner for him, shoving Iris’ bag – and her not so small laptop – into Barry’s gut. Before he knows it he’s on the ground.

But Barry doesn’t even let that deter him. He knows how much Iris’ dissertation means to her. He tries to reason with the thief, almost thinks he succeeds, but all he gets is a whack in the face for his troubles. In the end, Detective Eddie Thawne, transfer from Keystone City, gets the kid.

Barry should be grateful – and he is, Iris has her laptop back, after all – but he’s got a bleeding nose from the hit to the face and now they’ve got to head to the station to file a report and, well, he supposes he’s not going to see the accelerator turn on after all. It’s not too big of a deal. It’s not like he would have seen much of anything anyway, but still, to have been there during an event that will shape the history of science as the world knew it… Well, it would have been impressive to Barry.

But he misses his opportunity, so he’s in his lab at the CCPD, watching news footage, when the instrument actually turns on. The only good thing about it, he supposes, is that he’s not stuck out in the rain.

* * *

There’s no guarantee, of course, that screwing up the particle accelerator initiation will turn Barry Allen into the Flash. There are too many variables to control, too many factors to take into consideration. Eobard’s been keeping tabs on Allen, of course he has, but if Allen had decided to leave town last minute, there wasn’t anything he could have done to stop him. (That was an unlikely scenario though. Allen, in any life, was going to want to see the accelerator turn on, and he’s still in town when Eobard finally does set things into motion.)

He’s counting on two things, to create his nemesis – to create his way of going home. One, certain points in time want to happen. He’s not much of a time traveler, but he’s enough of one to know that. And two, the speed force likes Barry Allen. If there’s going to be a Flash after tonight’s explosion, it’ll be Barry Allen.

If there isn’t… Well, Eobard isn’t going anywhere. He has all the time in the world, unfortunately. He can try again. As much as he hates Barry Allen as the Flash, he hates being stuck here in this backwater twenty-first century even more. He’ll do whatever it takes to get home.

His employees are at his side through it all too, all of the future metahumans – heroes and villains, in another life at least – that’s he’s managed to gather to him, to watch over and mold. Whether or not Barry becomes the Flash, at least some of them should develop powers. Assuming they survive this. And when they do, Eobard will be right there beside them, making sure that every choice they make only further serves his purpose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter here, but as I said, things'll be a bit slow until Barry's coma is over. For now, Chapter 4: Genesis, should be posted in a month, on January 17th. Thanks for reading!


	4. Genesis

_January 17, 2013, evening:_

“Dr. Wells,” Cisco Ramon says quickly, as his employer enters the Cortex. “We just got the latest weather report, uh, a big thunderstorm is rolling in.” Dr. Wells doesn’t pause as Cisco speaks, making his way to the main screens displaying their readouts.

“Well, we’re not launching a space shuttle,” he says easily. “We’ll be fine.”

Cisco’s not about to admit to his nerves in front of the man – the guy’s a genius, after all. Besides, if Wells isn’t worried, why should he be? He offers a grin that he’s pretty sure Wells doesn’t notice and makes his way back to his computer. Truthfully, readings look good. Truthfully, the storm _shouldn’t_ interfere with anything. All the electrical energy… But the building’s well-constructed. And Wells isn’t worried. He’s right, after all. They’re just initiating a particle accelerator – everything is safely encased from the elements. Cisco gives everything one last glance over, then catches his boss’ attention again. Wells isn’t worried. Why should he be?

“Dr. Wells, the accelerator is primed and ready for particle injection,” he says proudly. Well, he’s got every reason to be proud – he’d played no small part in building the thing. _He’s_ part of the reason nothing will go wrong, _he’s_ part of the reason Dr. Wells isn’t worried. That’s definitely something to be proud of.

Dr. Wells turns back to him. The room is mostly empty now, just the key scientists involved in the project left. “Well,” he says, “I feel I should say something profound.” He circles the room loosely, making his way toward Cisco and the semi-circle of computers that control most of the equipment they’re surrounded by. “Like, ‘one small step for man’.” He scoffs light heartedly at his own attempt at humor, a grin on his face. He stands tall, and confident, and Cisco can’t help but remember how much he looks up to the man – the scientist – in front of him. “All I can think to say is I feel like I waited for this day for centuries.” He looks over at Caitlin, at Ronnie, at Cisco. They’re all grinning. (Of _course_ they’re all grinning! Cisco feels like he’s been waiting for years too.)

Dr. Wells places his hand on the screen; only his handprint is capable of setting things into motion.

It feels like a dramatic moment, but not much noticeably happens.

“That’s it?” Cisco can’t help but ask. He _knows_ there’s not really anything to see but… “You’d think there’d be like a loud bang.”

“If there was a loud bang, we’d all be in big trouble,” Ronnie counters, looking apprehensive.

Cisco can’t blame him for that. They’ve all put a lot of work into this. They all want to see results for their efforts. But Dr. Wells isn’t worried. He flashes his best friend a proud grin.

“Take it from the guy who helped to build it,” Caitlin agrees.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Dr. Wells announces proudly. “We did it.” The room starts to applaud.

* * *

“I’ve got to be honest,” Leonard Snart says coldly, walking into the warehouse as Dillon pulls away from Scudder, a grin on her face that falls at the sight of him. “I never understood… _this_. But, like my sister says, anyone can stoop over and pick up nothing.” They want to get involved with each other, he supposes that’s none of his business. They want to disobey orders, however…

Neither Dillon nor Scudder looks happy to see him, but he wouldn’t expect them to.

“What do you want, Snart?” Dillon bites out.

“I told you two to sit on your cut for a while,” he bites back. “Until things cool down.”

“Some of us like to actually spend the cash we get from these jobs.”

Idiot. He’d never said don’t _spend_ it – he’d said don’t spend it _yet_. “Not when it’s from the ones with me,” Leonard counters. Like he’d thought earlier – they can do what they want. Just not when they’re a part of his crew. He’s not going to get caught over some stupid mistake.

“You didn’t pull ‘em off yourself,” Scudder says, indignant, as if he could have gotten the jobs done without Leonard. “Without us you’d still be… kicking down liquor stores.”

Idiots, the both of them.

“I think you spent too much time staring at yourself in the mirror because your perception of reality is a bit warped. You know the rules.” He _should_ , at least. Leonard can’t afford to be too picky in his partners just yet – he’s smart enough to know he’s not that high up, at least – but he’d worked with Scudder and Dillon because he’d hoped they’d at least be able to _think_ straight. He’d hoped wrong, apparently, but at least he’d planned for that.

“I don’t give a damn about your rules. Or laying low. There’s no one in the city who can stop us. Including you, Snart.”

Stupid. Arrogant. _Useless_. Why had he agreed to work with these idiots in the first place? Leonard turns his head away, disgusted. He’s not sure if he’s more displeased with himself for trusting them, or them for breaking his rule. Oh well, it’s not like he hadn’t considered it was a possibility. People who join his crew aren’t allowed to break his rules. “It sounds to me like you’re saying you want out,” he says, turning back.

“Guess so,” Dillon answers for the both of them.

Exactly what he’d thought they’d say. He stands. “Well if you’re out… You’re _out_.” Well, they’re not _too_ much of idiots. From the looks on Scudder’s face, at least he’s managed to pick up some of the context clues. Scudder lunges for him before Leonard can get off a shot, can free his gun from where it’d been hidden and aim it properly, but no matter, that’s why he’d brought backup.

The fight’s dirty, as expected – maybe that’s half the reason he’d chosen to work with Scudder and Dillon, because they can hold their own in a fight – but Leonard gets the upper hand eventually. He’s got a knack for it. Scudder’s on the floor, Leonard’s pistol to his forehead. Dillon’s being held in the arms of his hired muscle, screaming for her new boyfriend.

Now Leonard, Leonard’s not a _killer_. He doesn’t go around murdering people for the fun of it, doesn’t get his jollies from watching people suffer. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty though. He can see the necessity, the practicality, of death, here and there. No wanton murdering – that’s pointless, senseless, _stupid_ – but sometimes one needs to make a point. He doesn’t particularly _enjoy_ it, but making a point isn’t about _enjoyment_. It’s about sending a message.

And Leonard always knows exactly what kind of message needs to be sent.

“You lost, Scudder,” he says, vindictively, because he might not be a killer but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy _winning_.

“Sam!” Dillon calls out again.

Lightning flashes from outside. Leonard looks up, more on instinct than anything else, and that… that’s not lightning. It’s hard to see through the windows, but there’s a bright light in the distance, red and unnatural. Leonard doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t need to – he knows it’s trouble.

Practically. Common sense. _Survival._ Leonard does what’s necessary, and right now, killing Scudder takes second place.

“Go!” he yells to his goons, because whatever the approaching wave of energy is, he doesn’t want to be here when it hits.

He leaves Scudder and Dillon behind as his car speeds away from the warehouse.

* * *

“Tahiti?” Ronnie asks in surprise.

“I know it’s a long flight, Ronnie, but, we can binge watch _Orange is the New Black_ ,” Caitlin Snow suggests. She’s always wanted to go to Tahiti, and she knows she can get her fiancé to see things her way.

“Oh, okay, but what about Italy?” he counters, exactly like she’d known he would. “Pizza and wine and… and more pizza.”

Caitlin stands with a wide grin on her face. Ronnie and his pizza. So predictable. “Yes, but Italy doesn’t have Mai Tais,” she replies, leaning forward, because she’s _going_ to spend her honeymoon on a beach somewhere, no matter what Ronnie thinks. “And a honeymoon isn’t a honeymoon without Mai Tais.”

Ronnie just grins back at her, but they’re at work, of course, so when they hear Cisco announce the accelerator is ready they put their conversation on hold as they re-enter the main room of the Cortex together.

Dr. Wells gives his speech, grinning at all of them still in the room, then places his hand on the control screen. The accelerator quietly clicks on.

“That’s it?” Cisco asks. “You’d think there’d be like a loud bang.”

“If there was a loud bang, we’d all be in big trouble,” Ronnie replies.

Caitlin grins at her fiancé. “Take it from the guy who helped to build it.” _You know what you were doing,_ she says with her grin. _Don’t worry so much_. He grins back at her, some of his nerves relieved.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Dr. Wells announces proudly. “We did it.” The room starts to applaud.

Ronnie leans toward her, and Caitlin meets him halfway.

“Mai Tais it is,” he says, after they share a kiss.

Caitlin’s beaming. She knew he’d see things her way.

The champagne comes out next, of course, because even if they’re technically at work, they’ve got something to celebrate. Dr. Wells pops the cork, and there are grins all around, and then…

And then the champagne starts floating _upward_ , out of the bottle, as if gravity has been reversed. It’s only for a second or two, only a split moment of something impossible before the champagne falls to the floor. They don’t have much time to contemplate it either. The lights go dark around them as emergency sirens start to blare in the background.

When Caitlin meets her fiancé’s gaze again, she knows there’s a little fear in her eyes.

“Was that…?” Cisco starts to ask.

“A loud bang?” Ronnie answers for him, sounding horrified and uncertain. None of them know what’s going on.

The room spins back to work, Cisco diving back into the computer screen in front of him. Caitlin follows suit.

“There’s an anomaly in the core chamber,” Cisco announces.

“The ring’s structural integrity is holding,” she adds, because she can read a screen perfectly well even if ‘structural integrity’ is nowhere near her job description. There’s probably panic in her voice, but she tamps it down best she can.

Between them, Dr. Wells is bent over his own screen as well. “It started a chain reaction, the system is collapsing. We need to shut it down.”

“We can’t ramp down the accelerator from here, we need to do it manually,” Cisco says quickly.

“Go!”

“I’ll come with,” Ronnie says from behind her.

Caitlin turns before he can leave. She doesn’t even think, just speaks. “Ronnie, no!”

“I’m the lead engineer, I know how to operate the shutdown valve.”

It’s not as if she wants to put Cisco, or anyone else, in danger, but… Ronnie. “It’s not safe,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know that. As if he weren’t volunteering anyway. As if she could say anything to stop him.

“Cait,” Ronnie says softly, “I have to go.” He lunges forward, hands gently cupping her face as he steals one last desperate kiss from her, and it feels so much like a goodbye. Too much like a goodbye.

Caitlin isn’t thinking straight. Nothing was supposed to go wrong tonight. But now it has, and she doesn’t know how to fix it. She watches him go for a moment, and then gets back to work.

* * *

Late nights in the lab are nothing new. Danton’s been interested in biology since high school and even if meeting Elizabeth had given him a new drive to complete his work he hadn’t exactly been lackadaisical earlier. Granted, STAR Labs _is_ turning on their particle accelerator tonight and even Elizabeth had pressed him slightly to attend the showing, but… Well, Harrison Wells is a _fantastic_ scientist, even Danton can admit that, but he’s no biologist. And if it’s not related to biology, Danton doesn’t care.

Besides, he’s _so_ close. Stagg himself has even taken an interest in Danton’s work and if his bosses’ boss is paying attention that hopefully means funding isn’t going to dry up anytime soon. The last two trial runs had yielded positive results. His subordinates had congratulated him. His boss had told him to take a vacation. They’re doing _well_ , given the time these things usually take. A few more years, some rigorous testing, and then a few more years to verify safety concerns, and Danton’s research might very well change the future of organ transplants.

Except Elizabeth doesn’t _have_ that long. Danton knows the ethics of what he’s doing perfectly well. He _knows_ these things can’t be rushed. If he gets this wrong, he could kill his wife. (Faster than she’s already dying, anyway, but he doesn’t let himself think that, _can’t_ linger too long on such thoughts.)

So. Late nights at the lab. Nothing new. Maybe he can’t rush the science, but that doesn’t mean he can’t put in double shifts to cut down the timeline anyway.

As for his latest insane plan… Danton stares down at his bare forearm, needle poised above it. _The results have been positive_ , he reminds himself. He needs to know if the stem cells will attack their host – they hadn’t in the mice. Would they in a human?

_This is for Elizabeth_ , he thinks. The thought strengthens his resolve. He’d do anything for her.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Danton finds his vein and plunges the needle into his skin. If this does work, he can push harder for human trials. He doesn’t need to go behind the testing agencies’ backs, he just needs to know if he’s going down the right track; he doesn’t need to spend months of his life – months Elizabeth might not have – on a batch that won’t work in the end.

A loud boom rattles his concentration before he can properly dispose of the needle. His arm jerks and the needle scrapes across his skin, a faint scratch that only draws a few beads of blood. He doesn’t notice, staring out the windows at the bright red wave of energy emanating from STAR Labs. At the wave of blackness sweeping over Central City as the power goes out. The red energy’s moving straight for him – at this rate it’s going to blanket the entire city. Danton makes an aborted movement, stopping only when he realizes there’s nowhere to go. And then the energy is right in front of him, and then it’s sweeping _through_ him, and –

* * *

They pull out the champagne as soon as their applause is finished, because even if the night’s still young they’ve _done_ it. The first privately funded particle accelerator. It’s something to celebrate, something to be proud of, and then… And then it all goes wrong.

“There’s an anomaly in the core chamber,” Cisco announces, a thread of panic underlying his tone.

“The ring’s structural integrity is holding,” Ronnie Raymond’s fiancée adds. It’s good news, but Caitlin’s tone isn’t pleased. _It’s holding for now,_ is what she means.

“It started a chain reaction,” Dr. Wells says, interrupting Ronnie’s downward spiral, “the system is collapsing. We need to shut it down.”

Right. Time to do something. As one, almost the whole room seems to turn to Cisco.

“We can’t ramp down the accelerator from here, we need to do it manually,” Cisco says quickly.

“Go!” Dr. Wells encourages them.

“I’ll come with,” Ronnie decides in an instant. He built it, after all.

Caitlin stands from her screens before he can race to help. Worry fills her eyes, fear. “Ronnie, no!”

He can’t deny that the same fear he sees in her eyes isn’t thrumming through his heart right now, but he also can’t stand here and do nothing. “I’m the lead engineer, I know how to operate the shutdown valve.” So do others, but… He’s the lead. His responsibility.

“It’s not safe,” she pleads with him.

God, he loves her so much. If this works, they can spend every vacation for the rest of their lives sipping Mai Tais in Tahiti. “Cait,” he says softly, because he _knows_ it’s not safe, just like she knows he isn’t backing down. “I have to go.” There’s no time for second guessing himself. There’s no telling the catastrophe that could result if the anomaly in the core chamber isn’t just a fluke. He puts his whole body into the kiss he gives the woman he loves, and then he’s racing out of the room behind Cisco, running faster than Cisco, getting ahead of him.

They make it to the access chamber in record time, but then again, it’s not like they’ve ever run the distance before. Ronnie’s hand opens the door. He turns to Cisco.

“Hey, you stay here,” he says quickly, rushed and panicked. There’s no time for second guessing, no time to think about the choice he’s making, or what it might mean for his future – or lack thereof. “We’ve only got a few minutes before this thing blows and if I’m not back in time you need to initiate lockdown.”

“No _way!_ ” Cisco protests instantly, as Ronnie’d known he would. “I am not closing this door. I won’t be able to open it again.”

They don’t have time to argue. “Cisco, if you don’t seal off the blast everyone in this building will die, including Caitlin.” This isn’t just about _him_. Cisco, open mouthed and horrified, looks away. Ronnie takes a step closer to him. “Okay, now promise me.”

Cisco still has trouble meeting his eyes, but after a moment he nods, repeatedly and wordlessly. Relief sweeps through Ronnie – whatever happens, Caitlin will be safe. Cisco will be safe. The whole _building_ will be safe.

“Set your watch,” he tells his best friend. “Two minutes.”

Cisco does. Their eyes meet again. “You’re coming back,” Cisco says, pointing at him as if to say, ‘ _you have to’._

The timer’s been set. Ronnie lets his eyes dwell on Cisco for but a moment before he turns and hurries into the accelerator.

Two minutes passes. It _has_ to have. Ronnie knows it even before he sets eyes on the closed door. This is it then. This is the end.

He’d thought it be more… Well, more. Instead, he mostly just feels relief. Of course he wants to live, but… Caitlin will be alive, Cisco did the right thing. That’s what matters, right?

He pulls out his radio anyway. “Cisco, can you hear me?” It’s louder than he thought it’d be down here. He’s practically shouting.

_“Ronnie, it’s me!”_

It’s not Cisco’s voice that comes over the radio, it’s Caitlin’s, and Ronnie’s relief is replaced by dread. What had he been thinking? How had he been so calm? He doesn’t want to die. He wants nothing more than to be on the other side of that door, with her. Will it hurt, in the end? He hopes it doesn’t. Hopes there’s nothing left for Caitlin to have to identify, no mangled and burned corpse that could haunt her dreams.

God, but he doesn’t want to die.

“Caitlin,” he says, full of longing and fear and love. He didn’t think he was going to speak to her again. He pushes back against the door he’s now sitting in front of, rests his forehead on his knee for a moment.

He’s never going to see her again. They’re never going to Tahiti. And there’s still no _time_.

“Is Cisco there?” he has to ask. He wishes he could spend these last moments telling Caitlin how much he loves her. He can’t.

_“Yeah, Ronnie, I’m here, I’m listening.”_

This is important. He needs to know. “I adjusted the magnets to redirect the beam. To try and vent the systems so the blast goes up, and not out.”

_“I’ll need to reset the particle parameters to compensate,”_ Cisco replies, which is exactly why Ronnie had told him. He knows Cisco can handle it, time pressure or not. The other man’s a genius.

He wishes he had time to say goodbye.

_“Cisco’s doing it,”_ Caitlin says next, and that’s it, Ronnie figures, that was the last time he’d ever hear Cisco Ramon’s voice.

He’s still got Caitlin, though. For a few moments longer.

_“There has to be another way out of there,”_ she says desperately. _“You_ have _to find it.”_

He loves her so much. _So_ much, so desperately, in these final moments. He wishes he could see her.

“Cait,” he says, all he seems to be able to say. But he has to say more. There’s no way out of this. “The chain reaction,” he relays. “I can’t reverse it. The doors need to stay shut to protect you.” He dodges another shower of sparks from above him. Light, blinding and red, surges down the tunnel toward him. This is it. “Caitlin,” he manages to say, “whatever happens –”

* * *

Shawna isn’t much of one for long walks, especially not on nights like tonight. Even if it’s not currently raining where she is, she can see the lightning and thunder from the storm easily. Normally, she wouldn’t be caught dead outside on a night like tonight.

_This is all Clay’s fault, the idiot_ , she thinks bitterly, kicking at a loose stone on the sidewalk. Something about tonight has put him in a bad mood. Shawna hadn’t asked. She knows perfectly well how he earns most of his income, but she doesn’t want to know the details. Plausible deniability. He lets her run her grifts when she needs a little extra cash, she stays out of his thefts (for the most part).

They aren’t _supposed_ to bring their work home with them. But Clay’s never been great at keeping to the rules, and Shawna’s never been great at sticking up to him, so here she is, wandering the streets at night in order to avoid his temper. He wouldn’t _hit_ her or anything, she just doesn’t need to listen to his stupid ass as he rants about the other idiots in his crew. What part of plausible deniability doesn’t he understand?

But he’s been good to her, or as good as she can expect when it comes to someone like him and someone like her. Gutter trash – Shawna knows the truth. Still, she’s determined to be more than that, and so’s Clay, and together they’ll manage to achieve it.

Sighing, Shawna turns around. She’ll be able to calm Clay down, and then maybe they can spend some time together, enjoy each other’s company the way she’d been hoping too when he’d come home that evening. Except, she falters, staring past the direction she wants to go, towards downtown Central City.

A massive burst of light shoots upward from… from _something_ , and Shawna stares at it, taken aback, before a wave of light explodes outward. There’s no time to run, no time to do anything else but think of how desperately she wants to be anywhere but here before the wave reaches her and –

* * *

The protestors outside the accelerator are ridiculous and excessive, as such people often are, but Martin doesn’t have much time to consider them. He’s late enough as it is already – don’t these people know it’s probably already _been_ turned on? He’s hurrying up the stairs past them when a boom shakes the air. For a moment, he thinks it’s just more thunder from the storm just beyond the overhang sheltering him from the rain, but it’s not. The next boom, a mere second after the first, rattles not just the air but the ground too.

A burst of light surges forth from the accelerator, but Martin barely notices it, thrown down the stairs by the tremors beneath him. The pain of the impact consumes him for a second. It takes him another to get his breath back, a third to realize that something’s gone horribly wrong with the accelerator.

On the fourth second, he realizes the F.I.R.E.S.T.O.R.M. Matrix had burst out of its containment as he’d fallen down the stairs. He struggles to his feet, reaching for it. If his _life’s work_ is damaged because _Harrison Wells_ couldn’t build an accelerator properly…

The light from the accelerator surges toward him, and Martin looks up, and –

* * *

He’s got no idea how the police found their hideout so quickly, but Mark doesn’t care. He’s not sticking around to find out. He and his brother planned for this, planned to be gone even when they _hadn’t_ known the police were coming for them so soon. Flying a plane out of town with their loot? It’s the perfect getaway. Even the exchange of gunshots before the two of them takeoff together can’t ruin Mark’s mood – even his brother shooting a cop can’t ruin their getaway.

Yeah, sure, the police’ll be gunning for them, after killing a security guard (and especially if that cop doesn’t make it) but they’ve got plenty of money now to hole up for a while, and who’s going to chase after a _plane_? Especially not with the storm over Central City. Mark and his brother agree mutually to head straight for downtown – they’ll angle around the storm eventually, but right now they want to make sure no one would think to follow them, even if those detectives back at the farm can get a ‘copter up in the air.

“I think I got one,” Clyde says, glancing behind them even if it’s too dark to really see anything.

“Your luck’s gonna run out one of these days, little brother,” Mark can’t help but reply, as usual.

“You’ve been telling me that since I was ten, Mark,” Clyde counters.

He’s not wrong. “Because I’ve been taking care of you since you were ten,” he replies anyway. There’s irritation in his tone, but there’s a smile there too, and Clyde knows it. Whatever else they are, they’re brothers. Always have been. Clyde only grins. “Things are gonna get choppy, might wanna strap yourself in.”

Clyde scoffs, still grinning. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Nah, and Mark doesn’t want to. Not when he knows it annoys his brother so much. He jostles Clyde with an elbow.

But then, there’s something heading right for them, something in the air. It’s bright, and moving fast, and Mark doesn’t have a clue of what it is or what it could be, but it strikes the plane and –

* * *

The rain’s drenching her roses and it _shouldn’t_ be, because the damn miniature greenhouse was supposed to be waterproof. All she’d wanted was something to shelter her outdoor pots during the winter months (not enough space inside for all her plants, after all) but the first thunderstorm of the season comes and rain’s leaking through the roof and this is _not_ how she’d wanted to spend her Friday night. She throws on her raincoat, shoves her bare feet into her boots, and curses up a storm of her own as she braves the weather to rescue her plants.

The lights inside flicker and then shut off unexpectedly, which doesn’t _help_ because she’d been relying on the light streaming through the window to _see_ for God’s sake. She curses again, hands dug into soft soil as she tries to scoop water out of a pot she’d just watered _yesterday_ because the stupid greenhouse was supposed to _prevent_ rain from getting in. When she looks up, the whole street looks like it’s lost power, which means at least it’s not her damn lightbulbs. She glances east next, toward the city, wondering if downtown has lost power as well, if the night’s clear enough for her to even see that far (unlikely, with the storm).

There’s… there’s a strange light, coming from the city. It’s red, and spread out in a wave, and it’s heading right for her and…

She doesn’t have the time to react, mouth gaping at the odd light, fingers reflexively clenching at the soil as if trying to hold onto _something_ , and then the wave washes over her and –

* * *

Idiot girl. Thinking she could _‘hang out’_ with her friends without telling him. Like he wouldn’t _find out_. Like he didn’t know she was only doing it to hit up the guys at the club. She could deny it all she likes but she can’t fool him.

With a sneer he shuts their bedroom door, clicking the lock shut. Let her stew in her regret for a while, that should teach her not to go behind his back. (He can hear her crying softly though the thin door. Good. But she better not get too loud.)

Meanwhile… Well, he’s not going to have the fun tonight he thought he would. She can make up for that to him tomorrow. For tonight… he goes to the fridge, grabbing a cold one and popping the tab open. The weak aluminum crinkles slightly in his strong grip as he guzzles a long sip. Shit, after dealing with that bitch he deserves it. He grabs a second can before the fridge swings shut, figuring he can save himself a trip, then tucks a bag of chips under his arm as he leaves the tiny kitchen.

There’s bound to be some sort of sport on TV this time of night so he heaves himself onto the couch, flicking through the usual channels. Some sort of college basketball game catches his attention – two no-name colleges he couldn’t care less about – and he lets the remote settle for a bit as he takes another sip of beer. Rain pounds on the windows to his right.

Damn, what a night. First the bitch, thinking she’s better than him, then the weather, and now there’s nothing on TV. He watches the idiot ref call a foul on something that was clearly just some roughhousing – can’t these college pussies man up? – before he finds his gaze drawn to the windows by something in the distance.

What the hell? Is that… He doesn’t know _what_ it is. There’s a red light moving toward him – covering what little of the city he can see through his crappy windows in his crappy apartment – and his hand clenches on the mostly empty can he’s holding and the light moves _through_ his wall, washing over him, and –

* * *

Mid-January as it is, the rain tonight is cold. They have no intention of going outside in it. Neither, it seems, do the myriad of cats they’ve found themselves holed up with. Over the past year or so, they’ve slept in some mighty strange places. All the clichés, of course – under bridges, in abandoned warehouses – but this probably takes the cake. The building itself is pretty unremarkable, just some business that went bust a few years ago probably, windows boarded, graffiti across the front. Quite frankly, they’re surprised they’re the only homeless individual to seek shelter here during the storm.

_Or,_ they clarify, if only in their own thoughts, _the only homeless_ person.

There are plenty of cats with them, after all. They even think they can see a dog in the one corner, but they don’t much feel like getting up. The cat on their lap, after all, is _very_ warm.

They run their fingers through the soft gray fur. The animals around them are restless, oddly enough – even the cat on their lap isn’t entirely still, tail twitching back and forth, eyes open. But the animal doesn’t get up, and they can’t see anything wrong themselves so –

A boom startles them out of their thoughts. For a moment, they think it’s just thunder from the storm – just the weather that’s riling up the animals – but no, the sound wasn’t quite right for that. They look around, frowning, but there’s nothing to see.

Then a burst of red light comes through the _wall_ and it’s headed straight for them and their fingers dig reflexively into the fur in front of them and –

* * *

Rain can be a blessing or a curse, depending on previous existing moods. On some people, the dreary weather seems to dampen their enthusiasm. Others, it seems to lull them to sleep (or near enough, while they’re working). Some people, however, those that really like thunderstorms, sometimes perk up a bit when it’s raining.

He has to be careful, pocketing stuff on a night like tonight. Some people are more attentive, some people are less. The only thing he _can_ be sure of is that there’ll be less people in any store. Which, again, makes it easier for him to pocket stuff without anybody catching him, but also more noticeable as the only one around. There are pros and cons to blending in with a crowd, same as there are with going out on a rainy night.

The corner store isn’t a place that he’s been before, which means no one there should recognize him. He slips into the aisles easily, wondering what he should take this time. Chocolate sounds good, right now, so he heads for the food aisle. Thunder distracts him for a moment, but not enough to stop his hands from wandering as he walks, nimble fingers grabbing little items from the shelves here and there.

The second boom, a few moments later, as he stands in the candy aisle contemplating his choices (can’t fit _everything_ in his pockets, after all), rattles him more than the first, and it takes him a moment to realize that that’s because _that wasn’t thunder_. He looks up in surprise, gaze going to the front of the store, to the windows that show nothing but the darkness of the night sky. The darkness and –

He shudders, snatching the first thing off the shelf in front of him as a reflex before bolting toward the back of the store, away from the wave of awful red light approaching. He doesn’t know _why_ he’s running but he also doesn’t know _what the hell_ that is, and running’s his default reaction. He skids to a stop at the emergency exit in the back of the store – pushing it open will set off the alarms – then reaches for it anyway. Screw it, he does not want to stick around to see what that light means, even if it means getting caught on camera.

Loud screeching signals the fire alarm going off as the door gives in front of him, but he wasn’t fast enough. He can see the parking lot in front of him, the darkness of the night beckoning, but he doesn’t get the chance to run again. He stands there in the doorway, deafened by the fire alarm, and the wave of light washes over him and –

* * *

The kids are finally asleep. Friday nights are always the hardest to convince them to go to bed – she’s afraid her own bad habits have rubbed off on them that way: they’re _toddlers_ for God’s sake! They don’t need to be excited about the weekend yet! But a fond smile can’t help but cross her face as she remembers their energy. God, she loves them so much.

“So,” her wife asks with a grin, as she pads softly down the stairs and back into the living room. “What now?”

Her grin softens. Her kids aren’t the only ones that have captured her heart. Life’s been _good_ lately, and she has her wife to thank for that as much as she does the tiny people upstairs that are half hers.

“Catch up on some episodes of _Alias_?” she suggests. They’ve still got the DVDs of the third season from the library, though she makes a mental note to check when it’s due.

“You read my mind,” her wife agrees, pulling her down onto the couch with her.

She lets out a soft noise of protest – someone needs to put the DVD _in_ , after all – but she doesn’t try to get up. She loves it when her wife enters “Octopus mode”, as they jokingly call it, and the feeling of being embraced in her strong arms is always so wonderful. She really does love Friday nights.

Pressing her forehead against her wife’s, she doesn’t hesitate to lean into the other woman. Kissing might be too much for her wife sometimes, but cuddling is never off the table.

“You know, one of us is gonna have to get up eventually,” she murmurs softly.

This time it’s her wife who lets out a soft noise of protest. She presses her lips briefly to her wife’s forehead.

“I promise I’ll be right back.”

She means it. She has every intention of setting up the TV show and then throwing herself back into her wife’s embrace. But then the power flickers off, and her wife’s grip on her tightens reflexively, and their foreheads are still pressed together so she almost – almost – doesn’t notice the strange wave of red light that washes over them and –

* * *

Central City is an average, typical mid-western city. He hates it on principal. But this is where the job has taken him, so this is where he is. Stupid corporate offices in the middle of nowhere. Stupid higher-ups who want to get rich but don’t have the slightest clue of how to hide their tracks when they push money around. Asshole bosses who are smart enough to know that he’s the one who can fix it, but not smart enough to realize he’s been manipulating things so that one day he’ll have _their_ job.

Except he doesn’t yet and he’s still stuck here in the middle of nowhere, piles of paperwork in front of him nevermind that it’s long past five o’clock, and a thunderstorm banging at his hotel windows. He’s half tempted to say screw it and head downstairs for the bar, but he’s got a plan to be on top and unfortunately it includes doing whatever the boss says, for now.

A burst of light from outside catches his eye though, and he looks up snarling at the interruption before his eyes widen in shock. What the hell? That’s STAR Labs’ particle accelerator, isn’t it?

He can already see the numbers whirling in the back of his mind – liability lawsuits and fees most of all – but his conscious mind is much more focused on the sight in front of him. What _is_ that? It’s… it’s like a wave of energy, spreading out from the accelerator and it’s heading straight for him – straight for _everyone_ – and –

* * *

The news that Barry’s been keeping an eye on while he works shuts off suddenly, but not entirely unexpectedly, power for the whole lab – the whole building, the whole city – going dark just moments after the newscaster had reported a problem with the accelerator. Barry Allen looks up from his computer screen to see a burst of red light shooting upward in the distance, right from where STAR Labs is located. It’d been a wave of energy from STAR labs that had turned out the lights, a wave that had swept over the whole city, right through him.

Something’s gone terribly, terribly wrong with the accelerator, and there is absolutely nothing Barry can do about any of it. He moves over to his skylight, grabbing the chains, but pauses after only a moment. The air feels… strange. When he looks around, the liquid in all his open beakers (mostly for show; there’s nothing _dangerous_ that’d he’d leave open like that) is rising upward, defying gravity. This is… it’s… Barry doesn’t know what it is. It doesn’t make sense.

Barry looks upward again, at the storm raging down on him from above, at the strangely lit sky, and then there’s a burst of light in his vision, and the sound of something shattering, and –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, life's gotten a little crazy right now. Hopefully the next chapter will be posted by Feb. 22nd, but I can't offer any guarantees at the moment. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> About this chapter, there's several OCs at the end. They aren't necessarily going to show up again, I just kinda wanted to get the point across that literally anyone in Central City could have become a metahuman.


	5. Uncertainty

_February 22, 2014:_

He wakes – No, he comes back to awareness, groggy and confused. Is that the right term for it? Was he asleep? Unconscious? He feels like it was something else, something so much bigger than those two things, unnamable and uncertain. He’s on a street? An alley, probably – there’s no one else there. The city seems deserted, though after a moment he realizes he can hear sounds of life in the distance – traffic, birds.

Still, the alley he’s in seems desolate. Gray, gray, gray. He’s surrounded by gray buildings and gray concrete beneath his feet, debris and dirt littering the ground. He couldn’t have been sleeping _here_ , was he? No, no, he wasn’t asleep. Did he wander here? Appear here? Where is he?

Where _was_ he?

_Who_ is he? Does he have amnesia? No, no, he knows who he is, doesn’t he? He’s… he’s himself. And… and something else. Someone else. The _other_.

No. No, that can’t be right.

Where was he again? He was… it was night. Bright lights. Fear.

He stumbles forward, surrounded by gray. A gray fog in his mind, a haze clouding his thoughts. He doesn’t feel right. His _body_ doesn’t feel right? Is he… taller? Taller than what? Than what he’s used to? That’s a ridiculous thought.

Where _is_ he? Gray. Concrete. Skyscrapers and a city and it’s… New York? Chicago? No, no, this is Central City now. Chicago was college, ages ago. Right? He… he went to college in Chicago, didn’t he?

When had he ever lived in New York? Why is he thinking of New York?

Central City. This is Central City.

Shattered glass lets him catch a glimpse of his reflection. He doesn’t recognize himself. (He doesn’t, right?)

He doesn’t know the face in the mirror, and not in a usual, he’s aged or grown tired or disconnected sort of way. He literally does not recognize the face. (Right? Why then, is there a strange sense of familiarity?) He’s… (he? Is he still even him?) he’s young. Young and brown-haired and tall. He doesn’t recognize himself, he doesn’t know what happened, but he can’t really focus on that either.

There’s a newspaper on the ground in front of him. It’s trash. Litter floating through the streets of his home – _Central City_ – but’s it’s information. He pushes past his revulsion and reaches forward to pick it up. Information. He’s a scientist. He knows that. There’s no confusion behind that thought. He lives off information.

His eyes skim the page. February, the date says. He almost skips over it. Almost ignores it, because the date is rarely the most important part of any newspaper. Almost ignores it because it isn’t February.

He doesn’t ignore it. It _isn’t_ February. It’s January. It’s January, and the particle accelerator had been about to be turned on – _had_ been turned on – except something had gone wrong and there’d been a blinding light and –

He stares down at the newspaper. And it’s February now, apparently. It takes his (his?) brain a moment to process that. It’s February. He doesn’t remember the past _month_. Was he unconscious? Is he suffering some sort of mental breakdown? What _happened_ to him?

It’s been a month.

_Clarissa_ , his brain urges him frantically, worry and concern flooding his mind. _Caitlin. No, no, Clarissa. My wife’s name is Clarissa._

That’s right. He knows who he is. He’s Martin. He went to college in Chicago. He took the train to see the accelerator turn on, over a month ago now, apparently. His wife’s name is Clarissa. They were planning a trip to Tahiti – no, no they weren’t. No.

No. His wife’s name is _Clarissa_ , and he’s been gone for a _month._ He needs to go see her now. Now. He’s… he’s in Central City. He can find his way home from here. He needs to go find Clarissa.

* * *

It’s evening by the time he – Martin, he’s _Martin_ – makes it home, because he doesn’t have a car, doesn’t have money for a bus or the train. (He doesn’t recognize his clothes and his body doesn’t feel right but he barely notices, mind a jumbled mess, focused on nothing more or less than getting home, seeing _Clarissa_. (Caitlin?) No. Clarissa.)

The door’s locked, but that isn’t a problem. That’s fine. The back patio door isn’t unlocked, but Clarissa always leaves a key for him. It’s easy enough to open it and slip in, his strange new fingers finding the door handle easily, the lights inside glinting off the wedding band he thankfully still wears.

Clarissa doesn’t have many lights on – it’s late, and she’s never minded the dim lighting – but there’s light enough for him to see by. Light enough for him to see her, walking toward him.

“Clarissa.”

She looks up. She looks up, and it’s her, and she’s alright, and Martin should feel more relieved than he does but there’s still part of him that feels full of worry and concern.

“Who are you?” she asks, wary, and that’s okay. That’s alright. He hadn’t recognized himself either, he certainly hadn’t expected her to. “How did you get in here?”

“Under the loose stone,” he answers. “You leave a key for me there. I’m always losing mine.” Right? No, he always keeps his keys – No. No, that’s not his memory. He loses his keys, forgets them places. He’s Martin. “Losing my keys. Losing my mind,” he finds himself muttering. He’s spun in his muttering, trying to put his thoughts in order, and when he turns back Clarissa darts for the phone.

“I’m going to call the police.”

He barely notices, eyes focusing on the papers in her hands. On the image on them. He lunges for one, still muttering.

“Losing my body. Where is my body?” The paper now in his hands is a missing person’s report. _His_ picture fills up most of the page. His. Martin Stein’s. _His_ face. His face, right? Yes. His face. His body. “I see my life, but I can’t reach it.” He knows who he is, he just sometimes… doesn’t. It’s distant. Disconnected. Detached. His mind is a jumbled mess and he can’t think straight and he looks up and Clarissa is on the phone.

“Please send someone,” she pleas, and her voice is full of fear, high-pitched and he never wanted to hear her sound like that. Never wanted to be the one to make her sound like that. “There’s an intruder in my house!”

And there _is_ because he’s… he’s not _himself_. He is – he’s Martin Stein – but this isn’t his body. It _isn’t_ , he isn’t himself and he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why, can barely process it himself let alone explain it to her.

He can’t explain it to her. And he can’t force her to let him stay here.

He can’t frighten her any longer.

A sound of frustration escapes his mouth – the mouth of the stranger’s body he now finds himself in – and he bolts for the door, missing person’s report still in hand.

* * *

* * *

_March 1, 2014, afternoon:_

The hospital hadn’t let her see Barry right away. They hadn’t let Dad in either, and he’s Barry’s legal guardian, so Iris tried not to take it personally, but nothing made much sense. It continued to not make sense when it seemed even the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with Barry. He was struck by _lightning_ , and in the time he’s been at the hospital, Iris has had a bit of time to do some (very basic) research (on the internet). She’s not sure she should be believing everything she’s reading but she gathers there are a few typical reactions to a lightning strike, more or less. Death is a big one, though not as common as she’d thought. People apparently break bones, lose their hearing, have heart attacks, burns, seizures. There’s a list of symptoms. Loss of consciousness is another, but not _comas_ , not _months_ of not waking up.

Then Barry’d been transferred out of the hospital and taken to STAR Labs.

Iris doesn’t know how to feel about STAR Labs. Their particle accelerator explosion hurt the city, killed people, might even have been to blame for the severity of the storm that had created the bolt of lightning that had struck Barry down. But they’re taking care of her best friend. Dr. Caitlin Snow is, admittedly, distant, but she’s kind and gentle too, makes it clear they’re taking good care of Barry, and answers her questions far better than the hospital ever did, even if she doesn’t have too much more information. That’s not even touching upon the money and equipment Dr. Wells is providing, or the fact that they don’t’ have any restrictions about letting her and Dad come visit.

Dr. Wells made a mistake, somewhere along the line with his accelerator, but he’s not denying it, and he seems to be trying to make up for it, at least with Barry. She’s talked with Cisco Ramon a few times too; he’s not as involved in Barry’s care, but he seems to be the only other employee at the moment, so he’s around often enough, and a scientist too. Iris doesn’t know enough about it to say if he’s doing anything actually feasible, but his latest project is apparently some kind of advanced polymer for the kind of protective gear firefighter’s wear.

All of which is not to say that Iris feels any better. The room Barry’s in in STAR Labs is clean and empty and clinical. The equipment is shiny and new, barely used, and the sheets covering him are stark white. Mostly, though, it’s his stillness that bothers Iris. Barry is never still. If he’s still, something’s wrong, and it’s terrible to have to sit by his bedside and watch him sleep, barely moving except for the occasional seizure.

It’s been a month and a half, and Iris just wants him to _wake up_ already.

“You’ve gotta wake up, Barry,” she says aloud, grasping for his hand. She’s taken to talking to him every time she visits, and not just for his benefit. They say some people in comas can hear you (though there’s been no indication Barry can yet), so she’d talk to him for that reason alone, but it’s partly for her benefit too. It’s something to fill the stifling quiet of STAR Labs, something to cover the sounds of the medical equipment he’s hooked into. He looks better, than he had in the hospital, but he still doesn’t look good.

She also talks because it’s what she’s used to doing. Talking to Barry. She’s _always_ been able to talk to Barry. Since they were kids. Since even before he’d come to live with them, really. If she has a crappy day and needs someone to complain to, he’s there. If she’s having trouble in school, he’s there. He’s always been there. And now he isn’t.

_“Please_ wake up,” she pleas, not for the first time. As usual, her words fall on deaf ears. Barry’s cut off from the world and she just wants him _back_.

For now though… She rubs his hand in hers, feeling the warmth of it, reassuring herself he’s still alive, watching his breathing rise and fall. For now, this is enough. Iris steels herself, puts aside her tears, and straightens where she sits.

“You would not _believe_ the story I found yesterday,” she finds herself saying, because even if Barry can’t hear her, she still needs to talk to him, and she’s found herself relaying stories of all the weird things she can find in the news, just because it’s what he would have been doing anyway. “You know that shelter down on 53rd? The one that we volunteered at in high school? Their cats went _crazy_ the other day, all at the same time apparently –”

And so she tells him the story about the animal shelter cats, and another about the string of alarms that have been going off in places all over the city – stores and banks and even cars – without anything being stolen, or even obviously broken into. She tells him about Superman’s latest exploits, and the strange tale of the oil tanker in the Indian Ocean and the latest plane crash that had happened to go missing over the Bermuda triangle, because it’s what Barry would want to hear, if he could. And because she can’t bear to think of him not waking up.

* * *

* * *

_March 11, 2014:_

Time passes in fits and starts. If he’s honest with himself, he’s not entirely aware of the passage of it. He’s not entirely aware of a lot of things. Most of the time, he knows who he is. Most of the time, he’s aware that _something’s_ wrong, that he doesn’t look like what he should. Most of the time.

Not all of the time. There are moments, memories, snatches of thought that feel wrong but right at the same time. A craving for pizza when he gets hungry. Knowledge of things he has no reason to know. _Caitlin_.

Martin isn’t always aware of these lapses. Once, he woke up with a half-eaten pizza in front of him, surprised to find that he’d eaten it at all and shelving his disgust as he’d swallowed down the rest of it.

Because he’s homeless now. Most of the time, he knows who he is. Enough to know that he’s not himself right now, that his mind’s not all there. That he can’t go to Clarissa, and that, if he can’t go to her, he has nowhere else to go. (Caitlin?) So he’s sleeping under bridges. He’s learning Central City’s abandoned places – especially the ones close to Clarissa’s work, so he can catch glimpses of her here and there, when he’s aware of himself enough to know he wants to.

It isn’t until a few weeks after he… after he what? Woke up? Came back to awareness? Regained enough of his mind to begin forming memories again? He doesn’t know.

Regardless, it takes him a few weeks before he connects what happened to him to the particle accelerator explosion and his own experiments. In his defense, nothing like this has ever happened before. In his defense, he has no idea what _this_ is. He’s (fairly) certain that he is Martin Stein, but the face in the mirror doesn’t match what he knows Martin looks like. (He _could_ have attributed that to memory issues, except he’d snatched a missing person’s report from Clarissa Stein – his _wife_ – and had seen his own face looking back at him.)

When he’s lucid enough to think on it, Martin can’t help but wonder if he’s having a severe mental breakdown. Maybe he _isn’t_ Martin Stein. Maybe he just thinks he is. Maybe he has something to do with the real Martin Stein’s disappearance. He knows, most of the time, this isn’t true. He has too many memories for it to be true. But he can’t think of another explanation.

Besides, even if the particle accelerator explosion is the last thing he remembers (well, he remembers tumbling down the stairs as the explosion had shook the ground beneath him), that doesn’t mean it caused whatever this is. He’s missing a whole month’s worth of memories, and he has the fuzzy memory of reading something once about trauma that people can block out traumatic memories. (Psychology is very much not his field, but he likes to consider himself well-read.)

He can remember the particle accelerator explosion, ergo, if his current condition was caused by a traumatic experience, that wasn’t it.

Then he lights himself on fire. It’s not one of his better moments. He’s having trouble holding on to his memories, having trouble thinking in the first person, and he hasn’t had much to eat for the last couple of days (he’d had to give up on eating kosher shortly into his stint as a homeless individual; Martin’s never been one for large-scale religion, but he has to admit that that has been grating).

There’s a noise, a sound, something meaningless and pointless and harmless, but he’s jumpy, and it spooks him, and then he’s _on fire_. He lights himself on fire, with no accelerant, no spark, no torch – and no pain. The fire is blazing from his head, flickering in the peripheries of his vision, and his hands, pouring out where his sleeves meet his wrists. His clothes aren’t burning. _He_ isn’t burning. His hair (not _his_ hair, but his hair now, this stranger’s hair (Ronnie?)) isn’t burning; he reaches up to grab it with fingers that are on fire, flinches back from the flames in his face, then tries again. He’s already got fire coming out of his head, after all.

It takes a short while for Martin’s rapidly beating heart (not his heart?) to calm down, and the fire is still there when he does so. It’s inexplainable. It’s inexplicable.

It _doesn’t hurt_.

It’s still there.

Martin hasn’t really considered the particle accelerator as the cause of his current condition, but he still remembers the night it exploded. Still remembers the research he had been carrying with him. He looks at himself (not himself, _not himself_ , this isn’t _him_ , he’s _trapped_ in his own mind – no, no, he’s Martin Stein, Martin Stein in the wrong body (not the _wrong_ body, someone else’s body), he’s _Martin_ ).

He tries to focus. He looks at the soft, orange, flickering light emanating from his – from someone else’s – hands. _Firestorm_ , he thinks to himself desperately. _Nuclear fusion_. His life’s work.

Then the moment of clarity is gone – because he’s on _fire_ – and the world is lost to him again.

* * *

* * *

_April 5, 2014, evening:_

Iris’s first date with Eddie “Pretty Boy” Thawne had gone… surprising well. Her second date, lunch and coffee that afternoon, had somehow gone even better. She’s still not sure how she feels, dating the transfer from Keystone she and Barry had used to make fun of slightly for his looks – no matter what television tended to show people, most cops couldn’t pass as models – but he is solid in a way she really, really needs right then. He picks up shifts for her dad when he wants to visit Barry (admittedly more so when Barry was in the hospital, with its stricter visiting hours, but STAR Labs still isn’t exactly _close_ to home). He doesn’t ask her what it is like to have a friend in a coma, doesn’t offer false sympathy, doesn’t press.

If she talks about Barry, he lets her, and asks small questions to keep the conversation going, but if she changes the subject, he lets it drop. More importantly, when Iris had rambled about her best friend’s geekiness (not on the _dates_ , thank goodness, just one time they’d gotten to chatting at the station when Dad had been finishing up some paperwork), he hadn’t seemed dismissive. Iris had pegged him as the jock type, and, well, she isn’t _wrong_ , but he also doesn’t seem the type to beat up geeks, so at least he doesn’t fit the jock _stereo_ type. He finds Barry’s brains impressive, and wasn’t unhappy to admit it, which was pleasant to hear.

_When_ Barry woke up, Iris wants the two of them to get along.

Some part of her is surprised at the fact that she wants to introduce the two of them. (Formally. As her boyfriend. They’ve already met loosely, after all.) For one thing, she hasn’t told anyone else yet, _especially_ not her father. For another, she’s only been dating him for a few weeks. Does she really like Eddie well enough to be so certain that she will still be dating him in the future?

But then, there is no real timeline for Barry waking up. Iris refuses to believe that it is a case of _if_ , and is instead only a matter of when. So, really, he could wake up tomorrow, and, if he did, she _would_ still be dating Eddie. It isn’t, so much, she figures, her brain assuming that she’ll still be with Eddie in a few months’ time. It is that Barry has already been in a coma for nearing three months now, and she isn’t willing to consider that it will be too much longer before he wakes up. She doesn’t really want to think about it.

“I actually think you’d really like him,” she finds herself saying to her friend’s sleeping form, instead of dwelling on those thoughts. She tells him all about how her date had gone as the time ticks by, probably more than she would have admitted to about her own internal thoughts had Barry actually been awake and listening. As usual, there’s no response from his prone form.

The worst part is, he _looks_ healthy. Like he hasn’t been motionless in a bed for three months. He’s not too pale, not too thin. Iris knows very little about medicine or comas, and she knows he’s getting his nutrients properly at STAR Labs, or as properly as a coma patient can, but he looks like he’s just sleeping. (Thankfully, she hasn’t witnessed any of his seizures lately.)

She shakes these thoughts from her brain too, squeezing Barry’s hand to stave off the awfulness creeping over her. She just wants him to _wake up_.

“Anyway,” she says determinedly, moving on. “Finals are coming up and …” She talks about classes, about Jitters, about the latest weird news articles she’s found. (She’s not sure if she’d just never really been looking before, but there is a _lot_ of weird stuff that goes on in Central City, at least lately. Little stuff, maybe not even anything Barry would have looked into while he was awake, because compared to supersonic speed these things probably don’t mean much, but still. A lot more than she’d expected.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's patience! Short chapter this time, but honestly, not much is going to happen until Barry wakes up. Next chapter's timeline starts mid-April, but I'm keeping pretty busy despite current events so I don't know when that will be posted. 
> 
> Stay safe and healthy!


End file.
